One Wish
by KnightFury
Summary: Holmes' behaviour and outlook has not improved much since his illness and both Lestrade and Watson are becoming increasingly concerned. It all comes to a head when their friend begins to disregard his own health and safety needlessly as a result. Set soon after "Time Shifts", which I would suggest that you read first.
1. When the Present Weeps for the Past

I stare out at the leaden skies of New London and watch the rain. I used to like rain; it promised that there would be footprints to be found in the event of a case. Recently, I have come to loath it. It keeps me imprisoned within the constricting walls of this house, away from my little sanctuary in which my dearest friend rests. I long to get out!

"Are you all right Holmes?"

Use your eyes Watson!

"Holmes?"

Do not snap! I close my eyes for a moment, put on a smile and turn to face the robot that is watching me with concern. "Of course I am Watson!" I say cheerfully. "I was just watching the rain and thinking."

He addresses me with a relieved smile. "Would you like a cup of tea? You have been sitting there in your contemplation of the rain for almost three hours."

Has it truly been raining for three miserable hours?

"Holmes? Are you quite sure that you are all right?"

Of course I am not! Furthermore, my Watson would have known what was wrong in an instant. I remind myself yet again to remain genial. "Yes, I am quite well." This is perfectly true; I am not ill.

"Is there anything that you would like for lunch?"

Lunch? I believe I have only just had breakfast! "Just a sandwich."

He frowns at me. "Are you working on a case? You had very little for breakfast; you must be starving!"

Enough of this! I am off to visit my Watson and his lovely wife; I shall simply have to take an umbrella. I stand and snatch up my Inverness and deerstalker. "I am off out."

"In this weather and with no sustenance in you? You'll catch a dreadful cold!"

I turn on him with annoyance. "I shall be quite all right I assure you old fellow."

He sighs dejectedly. "I do wish that you would listen Holmes."

I pat his shoulder, address him with a smile and run out to my hovercar.

Ugh! Driving in this weather is horrendous! The wind is stronger than I had realised and visibility is not the best. At least that means that there are few motorists about. I battle on through the driving rain, my jaw set grimly as I wrestle with the controls. I almost regret leaving the house, but just the thought of my friend and his oasis of green in this forest of concrete and plastic spurs me on.

I eventually park outside of the cemetery and pick my way to the Watsons' graves. Today, even the flowers look sad, beaten down as they are under the onslaught of nature.

I shiver as I stand beside my friend's headstone and pull down the flaps of my deerstalker, realising that I forgot the umbrella in my haste to get out of the house. I have no doubt that the robot will have words with me when I go home.

"Hello Watson," I say quietly as I pull my Inverness closer. "Miserable weather, is it not?"

I gaze about me and smile. Despite the foul weather, the graves of my friend and his wife are by far the finest in the cemetery. Sadly, the other graves are all as neglected as these were when Lestrade found them for me. I am rather proud of the work that I have put in and the results of my efforts.

"I am beginning to share your dislike of rain," I retort as I shift restlessly on my feet. I am already feeling the chill! I busy myself with duties such as deadheading until I quite forget the wind and rain, chatting quietly all the while.

The rain eases until it finally stops and I watch the sun bathe everything in its warm, golden light. The raindrops glisten on the plants and flowers, making even the stinging nettles look like bejeweled beauties. It was worth standing in the rain just to witness this!

I smile and suppress a shiver. "What a sight," I remark to Watson. "Truly, Providence provides us with more wondrous beauty in a moment than mankind could create in a millennia."

I glance in the direction from which the wind is coming and notice a new black cloud looming, beneath which hangs a ragged rainbow which dims and brightens as the cloud moves closer. More rain on the way! I shiver and brace myself, for I have no desire to go home just yet.

I tell my old friend about the common-place case that Lestrade dragged me away from a hot cup of tea and a warm fire over and bemoan the lack of interesting cases. I describe the lack of culture in this miserable century, where theatres and music halls (not that I had much time for the music halls, mind you) have been replaced by cinemas, television and computers.

"It is unbearable Watson!" I complain. "Even Moriarty's presence here is not enough to keep me from going mad with boredom!" Yet I know that I am not being honest. I know that this is not mere boredom. This is much worse; unbearable memories that I should not have to endure resurface when I have nothing to occupy me. Even now, they are playing through in my mind, much like one of those 'movies' that Lestrade has subjected me to.

My last memory of Watson is a painful one indeed. He had had me sent for and, although the message that I received did not say that he was dying, I knew. The urgency in the message was enough to tell me what was amiss. As a result, I almost found myself unable to pluck up the courage to go to him and when I finally did it was almost too late. I remember hurrying into his room and sitting beside him on his bed. I held his hand as if the grip of my fingers was enough to keep his weary soul within his scarred and battered body. I remember his apology for causing me such pain. I believe we both shed some tears at that point. He asked me to play for him and of course I did so. When the music ended and faded away, I set aside my violin and gazed down at my friend's still form. He looked so peaceful, as if he were sleeping; his eyes were closed and his lips turned upward in a gentle, contented smile. I took his hand in mine once more, knowing as I did so that there would be no pulse.

The heavens open with a crash of thunder before the sun has even ceased to shine. I shiver anew under this fresh onslaught as I weep silently in the pouring rain, allowing the elements to wash away the tears as they fall.

I eventually return from the memories and sniff despondently. "As always, I miss you terribly," I inform my old friend with a wan smile. "I shall be very selfish, as is my wont, and admit that I wish that you were here. I am sure that nothing would seem as dreadful if only you were at my side."

Selfish I may be, but I know that I can be perfectly honest with my Watson. I dearly wish that I had found it within myself to be so open when he was alive!

"I suppose I should go," I remark eventually with another cold shiver.

If he could, I know that the old fellow would have told me as much long before now. As always, however, I find it difficult to tear myself away.

"I shall see you tomorrow old chap. Some of these perennials need some attention," I sniff and stamp my cold feet. "Until tomorrow then. Good day Watson, Mrs. Watson."

I turn to take my leave and am met by an angry Inspector Lestrade, who strides to my side and draws close in order to share her umbrella.

"Are you zedding crazy?" she demands hotly. "What are you doing out on a day like this?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Visiting Watson."

"You could've crashed that car of yours!" she practically screams in my ear. "D'you realise how dangerous this weather is? Zed Holmes!"

I sniff and suppress a shiver. "My driving is not that bad."

She glares at me. "We'll discuss this at Baker Street. Come on, get in my cruiser."

"What about my car?" I have no intention of leaving it here for I shall want it tomorrow!

"I told Watson to take it home," she says with a smug smile. "Come on. Just get in the zedding car."

I obey with another quiet sniff. I give a violent shiver as my friend climbs into the driver's seat beside me and turns the heating up.

"D'you realise how easy it is for even an experienced driver to get blown off course in these gales?" she snaps at me.

"It is also g-good to see you Lestrade," I retort with my usual sarcasm.

"You might change your zedding mind when I'm finished with you! Don't you dare laugh at me Sherlock Holmes!"

I wipe the smirk from my face and give her my finest contrite expression.

"What were you thinking of? You could've been killed or even killed somebody else! Don't tell me that didn't even cross your mind!"

"There w-was hardly anyone about!"

She huffs and glares at me. "And that should've told you just how dangerous it is out here!"

I have no answer to that.

Lestrade shakes her head and starts the car as I shiver miserably and huddle further into my dripping Inverness. "Zed! You really must be crazy! How long have you been out in that?"

I shrug. I have no idea at all.

"You don't even zedding know?" she explodes. "Holmes! What the zed is wrong with you? D'you wanna get sick?"

"Of course not!"

She frowns at me. "You could've fooled me! Look at you! You're soaked!"

I am quite all right! I give another violent shiver and regard her thoughtfully. "What b-brought you here, anyway?"

"Where else would you go to for hours without a word when you aren't working a case?" she asks. "Watson'd know if you were consulting on anything privately and I haven't put you on one of my cases since you threw a zedding fit over the last one!"

I ignore that remark. I do not throw tantrums! "I take it that Watson telephoned you and asked if I had come to see you?"

"That's about the size of it," she nods. "He started to really worry when I said I hadn't seen you all day..."

Oh wonderful! This does not bode well.

She shakes her head and glares at me from the corner of her eye. "What the zed is wrong with you? You obviously didn't think to dress any warmer than usual... Heh! You didn't bother to grab an umbrella, even! I thought you were meant to be smart!"

I take it that she is not talking about being smartly dressed... I shrug my shoulders and sniff.

"No answer for that one. Right."

I grumble. "I miss Watson and w-wanted to s-s-see him... I did not th-think any f-f-further."

"You're really cold!" she turns the heater up again. "I wish I could understand you! Why the zed did you have to stay in the rain until you were turning blue?"

I shrug again. "I hardly noticed the c-c-c-cold."

She huffs a quiet laugh. "I think you've started noticing it now..."

"I am ac-ctualy w-war... uh... Attishoo!" I grimace and slam my eyes shut for a moment before pulling a handkerchief that is (thankfully) still dry from my pocket in order to give my nose a good blow. "...warming up. Excuse me."

I can see that she is grinding her teeth. I choose to ignore the insult and curse that she mutters beneath her breath.

I do not fare very much better when we reach Baker Street. My robotic friend begins his tirade the moment that we enter the house.

"My God Holmes! What in Heaven's name have you been doing? You must be soaked through!"

"Ashoo!"

"Yes, I should think that you have caught a cold! Go and take a hot bath; I shall get you a change of clothes."

Well, at least his lecture was shorter.

When I enter the living room, having sufficiently warmed up and changed into dry clothes, I am met by a stony silence. Lestrade is gone and Watson has decided that he does not wish to talk to me.

"I feel much better now," I remark pleasantly.

My companion does not even turn to look at me.

"I am sorry to have worried you old chap."

He shrugs but still refuses to face me.

"I am sure that I shall be quite all right; I have stopped sneezing now that I am warm..."

He shrugs again.

"Watson?" I approach him slowly and rest a tentative hand upon his shoulder. "Come now old fellow, what is it?"

He brushes me off. "You do not care whether I worry or not!"

I stand frozen. I did not expect this! "Of course I do!"

"You spare not a thought for me or for Lestrade!" he thunders, turning a furious glare upon me. "You did not see how scared she was when I told her that you had gone driving in that storm; I did. She thought that we were going to find you hurt or worse!"

I keep myself from averting my gaze. I am not a coward. "I am truly sorry."

"She was close to tears when she left here. Lestrade - almost crying! And why? Because when she spoke to you about the terrible danger that you put yourself in (not to mention us, seeing as we had to go in search of you), you laughed at her!"

"I did not mean for her to think that..."

"Do not try to explain your actions to me Holmes," he growls. "I suggest that you call Lestrade and apologise. I am going to make you some soup while you do so and then you are going to eat it without a word of complaint."

Once I have apologised, Lestrade calms down somewhat. I am still talking with her when Watson presents me with the soup.

"I better let you eat. Look after yourself Holmes."

I give her a smile. "Likewise my dear."

She snorts with laughter and ends the call.

The following morning, I find that I am not in the best of moods. The wind may have dropped, but the weather is still wet and cold. I also clearly have the beginnings of a chill after standing out in the rain for so long yesterday. I do not admit as much to Watson, naturally. I have work to do at the cemetery and I am not going to be kept indoors against my will!

I get into my car and make my way to the cemetery, being sure to use the autopilot to ensure that I shall not cause an accident should I sneeze while I am at the wheel. The absent motorists of yesterday are all back and out in force today.

I park and scramble out into the mist and rain, only to find that the gates are locked. I test the chain and padlock, rattle the gates and then walk the perimeter, checking the six foot wall for weak points or possible foot and hand holds. Grr! I can find no way in!

I am just about to go back to my car when I notice a woman attaching a laminated notice to the gate. I decide to investigate.

CLOSED FOR RENOVATION UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, the sign says.

Well, thank you so very much! What about the graves that I have been tending to? I hope that my hard work is not going to be ruined!

I get into my car and return to Baker Street, feeling even more miserable and irritable.


	2. Just to See Your Face

_**I usually answer my reviews by PM, but as Starjammerblue does not receive them I shall reply and acknowledge quickly here...  
**_

_**First of all, I would like to than Ballykissangel for the continued help and support, as well as the nice reviews. You are a tremendous help!**_

_**Starjammerblue, your review took my breath away! Thank you so very much for the lovely review as well.**_

* * *

Time has dragged on and still the cemetery remains closed. I feel as if I am about to go out of my mind! I feel trapped, confined within the walls of my own house!

Those that have read my Watson's accounts of my cases might believe me to dislike grass and trees. This could not be further from the truth; I enjoy a stroll through a park or garden just as much as the next man. I simply am all too conscious of the many possibilities that criminally-inclined individuals have in remote areas; it does not mean that I should prefer this concrete wilderness!

Even in the busy city of London, nature was everywhere in my day! There were gardens and parks full of grass, flowers and trees and where there were plants there were invertebrates, birds and animals. Of course, there were also the many animals that lived and worked within the streets. This wretched era is almost completely devoid of flora and fauna in comparison and that causes it to seem increasingly strange and uncomfortable to me, for it is just not what I am accustomed to.

The cemetery is not just my Watson's final resting place (and as a result the only place in which I feel less alone). It is also one of the few places in which birdsong can still be heard and bees and butterflies (if only one or two) can be seen. It makes me feel as if things have not changed quite as much as they might appear to have done.

I shiver slightly as I observe the view from my window. I have been feeling tired and chilly all day and now I am becoming miserable as well. For the first time since my return from death, I am suffering with insomnia and the depression that comes with it. My head aches with fatigue and my eyes are gritty and sore.

"You really should try to sleep Holmes," my robotic companion says for what must surely be the hundredth time, resting a hand upon my shoulder.

I turn a glare upon him and sniff quietly. I am growing rather tired of his constant nagging and it is not as if I am consciously refusing to sleep anyway. I know that I am feeling cold because I am so done up and I also know that continuing to go without rest is going to make me ill. It does not make it any easier for me to meet with Morpheus!

"What is it old boy?" he asks gently. "If you would only tell me what the matter is I might be able to help."

I moan and throw myself upon the settee. I very much doubt that I could explain because I barely understand what exactly is amiss myself! I feel as if everything is wrong!

"Please talk to me."

I cover my eyes with my arm. "I miss my home." That is it in its entirety. There is nothing that I like about this miserable century!

"But... you are home! You are on your sofa, in front of your hearth in your sitting room at 221B Baker Street."

I groan. Of course a robot would fail to understand!

"You are overtired Holmes. It is making your brain muddled."

How dare he! My brain does not become muddled! "I miss my own era. I miss the culture! The theatres..." I close my eyes tightly and tell myself to leave the rest unsaid. The culture is nothing! I could live with that, if it were not for the many other differences.

Watson takes my hand gently. "I am sure that there are still theatres in New London."

"One or two, perhaps..." I grimace. "But the productions are all wrong Watson! You have seen those dreadful 'movies' that Lestrade so loves!"

He sighs. "Is that what it is? You wish to go out to a production of the kind that you would enjoy in London?"

That is a very small part of it. "I wish to be able to do as I damn well please! In my day, I did not have to answer to Scotland Yard..."

"Lestrade gives you as much freedom as she can afford Holmes," he reminds me in a reasonable tone as he gently squeezes my hand. "You know that."

Yes, I do know that. She tries to listen to me and follow my lead, but that Yarder is happy following the directions of another as much as I am. It is little wonder that we clash so often! "It is not the same."

"No. Of course it is not the same," I hear him give a sigh. "At least she makes an effort for your sake! How many of her colleagues would do that, do you think?"

"You do have a point," I mumble with a cavernous yawn. I should be thankful of small blessings, I suppose.

He pats my hand gently. "Please try to sleep old chap."

I am tired of trying! I feel as if I have spent an eternity simply trying to sleep! "Please do not nag," I groan as I pull my arm closer to my face. "I know that I have to sleep. I know that my current mood is probably at least partly due to my fatigue. I am also well aware of the increasing probability of my becoming unwell if I do not sleep soon. Knowing all of this does not make a jot of difference!"

He sighs again. "Would you like some hot chocolate? That might help. Chocolate is supposed to improve a fellow's mood; it might make you feel a little better."

I probably require a gallon of it at least then. I sniff and nod; I shall try it. "Morphine is good for sleep..." I hint quietly.

"It is also an illegal substance Holmes," he snaps. "I am not giving you anything to make you sleep; the last thing that you want is to become reliant on sleep-inducing medication."

I have been before! Morphine was often my only method of switching my racing brain off and falling into a restful slumber.

"Close your eyes and relax. That is it. Just stay still and quiet," Watson gives my hand another squeeze as I attempt to settle. "Do not try to sleep then; just stay still and quiet. That should at least help."

I take his advice with a weary sigh. He is quite right; it is better than trying to force myself to sleep.

I am drifting when my companion returns with my drinking chocolate. He helps me to sit up and hands me my cup. "This should help Holmes."

I sniff and mumble my thanks with a violent shiver.

"You are cold!" he quickly snatches up my Inverness and drapes it about my shoulders. "I hope you are not catching a chill. The room is a pleasant enough temperature."

I sip at the drink gratefully. "Tiredness often causes me to feel the cold."

He crouches beside the settee. "That is overtiredness old chap. You are so desperate for rest that you cannot even find the energy to keep yourself warm."

If there ever is such a thing, the first prize for stating the damned obvious should be presented to Watson the compudroid! "I do know that," I retort with bad humour. "I have felt like this before."

He tends to the fire and then returns to my side. "Is the chocolate good?"

I nod and sniff. "Very. Thank you."

He takes my cup from me when it has been emptied and does his utmost to make me comfortable. "Do as I told you. Just rest with your eyes closed; it is better than trying to force yourself to sleep."

I give a slight nod and take his advice. Perhaps now I can find the rest that my body and mind have been demanding for so long!

"I am going to leave you alone to rest," he announces. "I shall check on you later."

I curl up beneath my Inverness and breathe upon my arms in a desperate attempt to warm myself enough to settle. I feel almost as bad as I did when I was ill with influenza! I have a chill in my very bones and my body feels like lead.

I drift between short periods of restless sleep. It is difficult for one to find rest when one is freezing from the inside out. I curl up tightly and draw my Inverness closer, but it does not help me in the slightest. I am not sure whether I go into a deep enough slumber or if I merely enter into 'waking dreams', but I have visions of Reichenbach and Moriarty. On more than one occasion I go over the falls and am swallowed up by the icy water, in which I am left feeling as if the cold is burning my skin.

Watson returns later and offers me food. I refuse it. I am too tired and miserable to feel even slightly hungry.

"You are becoming ill!" he all but shouts at me in an accusatory manner, as if I am putting him through all this deliberately.

Yes, I probably am. I sniff and shrug my shoulders. "I cannot help that old lad." If I am annoying him so very much, why does he not simply walk away and leave me be?

He groans and crouches in front of me. "I am not angry with you Holmes. I am frustrated with myself. I do not know what to do..."

I roll up my sleeve and present him with my bare arm. "Morphine?" I almost beg him. I want sleep. I care not how I obtain it!

"I am going to call Lestrade," he announces as he stands up.

I grimace and snort with impatience and frustration. "Why? She is not a physician!"

"No, she is a concerned friend. A good friend at that. Perhaps she can help; she probably knows more about sleep than I do."

I listen to him as he crosses the room to make the call. I close my eyes and return to drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland, coming close to falling fully asleep but never quite succumbing. Morpheus is an illusive fiend when he so wishes!

"Lestrade, Holmes is becoming worse!" I hear Watson say in a concerned whisper. "He is refusing food, as well as finding sleep impossible. I believe that he is ailing."

"Aw Watson! I don't see what I can do about it," she responds quietly. "He's not ready for this yet. You know that."

I am not ready for what? What are they planning?

"He has been immunised now, has he not?" the robot responds softly.

What the deuce is he talking about? He was there when I was given my wretched tests and inoculations! He was the one that had the difficult task of making me comfortable in the aftermath, when the many substances that had been forced upon me left me feeling ill and uncomfortable. He of all people should know that my immune system is now as up to date as it can be!

"Well yes, but..." I hear Lestrade give a sigh. "I'll have a talk with Sir Evan, OK? I'll have to see what he has to say about it."

I have pricked up my ears and am giving their discussion my undivided attention, for they must be discussing a case! A case that comes with a health risk attached to it, by the sound of it. I hope that Lestrade has not been risking her own health too freely.

Their discussion moves on without a mention of any details concerning this latest case and I consequently lose interest. I get up from the settee and sit in the bay to gaze out into the street once more. I half-heartedly listen to their quiet conversation while I rest my head against the glass in front of me and close my eyes.

"Holmes!" Watson scolds suddenly as he approaches my side. "I do wish that you would at least lie down!"

I ignore him. I no longer have the patience to sprawl about all day, trying in vain to sleep! What is the point?

I know not how long I have been sitting here. On occasion I have dozed off, as my eyes have become too weary to remain open and focused, but I do not remain in slumber for very long. I seem to be spending more time attempting to keep my stinging, watering eyes open in order to watch the street. I jerk into full awareness suddenly at the sound of the living room door bursting open behind me.

"Holmes? You OK?" Lestrade asks gently as she steps into the room.

I raise a hand in a weary greeting but do not turn from the window. I very much doubt that she will permit me to join her on her case once she has seen my face. I know that I look dreadful!

"Will you at least talk to me Holmes?"

I sigh and turn to face her. Watson is quite right; the Yarder has been very good to me and I hardly want to hurt her feelings. Not again. She has been trying to keep me busy since the cemetery was closed for restoration and, as the robot has already pointed out, few people would have cared, much less bothered. "Hello my dear," I mumble tiredly.

"Zed! You do look sick!" she grimaces and approaches me slowly. "Are you really only beat?"

I nod and shiver violently. "I do not think I have slept for weeks. Not properly."

"Why not?"

I shrug and look away.

She sighs. "You miss Watson, don't you? Your Watson, from your era."

I close my eyes and nod. I hear the door open quietly behind her but pay it no heed. I had already noticed that the compudroid was not present when I turned from the window.

"Would you be able to rest if he was here, d'you think? Would his being here make all the difference to you?"

What is the point of this? I know only too well that he cannot be restored to me! Lestrade has already explained that his body would have to have been preserved in order for Sir Evan Hargreaves to have enough to work from and he has been buried for more than a century! "You know that it would!" I shout at her. "I need my Watson more than ever..." my voice cracks and I suppress a sob of anguish and torment. Watson was my beacon of light in a dark world; my fixed point in a rapidly changing environment. The words 'I need him' do not begin to express the way that I feel. The most extraordinarily well-versed of poets could not express it!

There is the sound of a throat being cleared rather nervously and a man steps into the room slowly, tentatively. He has a stance that indicates military training; a robust, athletic build; short hair; blue eyes and a tidy, short mustache.

I feel my mouth turn dry. It cannot possibly be... "Watson?" my voice is little more than a faint croak. My mind is racing. He cannot possibly be here! I must be ill and feverish! That, or I am seeing a ghost or going mad. Inspector G Lestrade always said that I would end up in Bedlam one day.

"Holmes!" Watson's face lights up in much the way that it did when I returned from my three years of hiatus. He continues to speak but I fail to understand his words. They sound rather like excited gibberish.

I suddenly feel somewhat unwell. My legs would appear to be unable to support my weight and my vision seems to be dimming. I attempt to speak, but I cannot say a word. Through the gloom and fog I see the room tilt as the floor rises to meet me.


	3. A Tremendous Shock

Watson rushes to my side and throws his arms about me as I crumple floorwards. "Lestrade! He needs some brandy!" I hear him shout. His voice sounds as if it is coming from the bottom of a deep well. Most peculiar!

In an instant I am stretched upon the settee and then my dearest friend assists me in sipping at the restorative drink while Lestrade hovers nearby. I feel his hand upon my forehead.

"I am so very sorry Holmes. I should have insisted that we did this much more gently; it should have been obvious that this would be a terrible shock to you."

I grip his hand firmly. "It truly is you!"

He laughs happily and sets aside the glass. "Yes, of course it is!"

I pull him into a tight embrace. I feel as if I do not know whether I should laugh or cry!

"You are shaking!" he notes as he wraps his arms about me. "Are you certain that you are all right?"

Ever the doctor! I smile. "Perfectly! I am better than I have been for months!"

He pulls away and looks at me long and hard. "You do not look well Holmes."

Ah. I turn my face away for a moment. "I have... not been sleeping of late."

I hear him give a sigh. "Are you working a case?"

I shake my head. "I have found it incredibly difficult to adjust," I admit quietly.

"Yes, Miss Lestrade told me as much," he looks into my face for a long moment. "What happened Holmes? She was beginning to believe that there was something wrong with you."

I grip his arm and smile. "I needed my Watson! I have missed you so very much..." I close my eyes against my building emotions. Why do I feel the need to cry when he is here beside me? It makes no sense! I also feel like cheering and leaping about the room, which does make considerably more sense, but I do not understand why I want to do both simultaneously. Did I feel this way when I was finally able to return to him after my three years of hiatus? I probably had done until he had fainted; I do seem to remember offering to embrace him, just before he crumpled to the floor and scared me half to death, but very little else.

Watson pulls me close to him when I begin to blink rapidly. "I am here now old chap. I am here."

I nod and rest my head upon his shoulder. My throat is much too tight and sore to allow me to speak.

I hear Lestrade tell Watson that she is going down to the kitchen, should we need her. He acknowledges her with a kindly smile before turning his attention back to me as we are left alone.

"There is no shame in crying," I hear my friend say quietly, his voice rumbling and vibrating through him as my temple rests at his shoulder. "It is all right."

It is as if someone has unlocked a long-forgotten door. I cling to him as I weep into his shirt. Never before have I released my emotions in this manner in anybody's presence.

Watson holds me close to him. Not a word does he speak. He neither rocks nor hushes me but simply allows me his time.

I sniff suddenly, realising that my nose is running horribly. "I hope that you have a change of clothes..."

He laughs and squeezes my arm gently. "It does not matter Holmes."

I accept the handkerchief that he offers me and smile at him gratefully before blowing my nose.

He returns my smile and pats my shoulder. "It is good to see you again. I have also missed you."

I cough and clear my throat. This is one of the main reasons that I have for disliking the act of crying; it is terribly messy and leaves one's throat feeling dreadful!

"You do look tired," he notes. "Perhaps you should get some sleep before we discuss things further."

I shake my head and wave a dismissive hand. "I am quite wakeful."

He wags a finger at me. "You will be quite unwell if you do not rest soon Holmes. As much as I would be prepared to do all that I can for you, I would much prefer to not have to spend my first day reunited with you treating fever and exhaustion."

I shrug expressively with my hands and stretch myself upon the settee. "Would you object to my sleeping here?"

"Not in the slightest," he responds with a dry chuckle. "I seem to recall that you spent more time on that sofa than you ever did in your bed."

I smile and close my eyes. "Do not go far."

"Where in God's name would I want to go?" he asks with another chuckle. "I shall still be here when you wake, have no fear. I am just going to go down and speak with Miss Lestrade; I shall be back."

I nod and stifle a yawn. There is the rustle of fabric and something is draped over me. My Inverness, going by the feel of it.

"Sleep well," I hear my friend whisper.

I give a small smile in response, though I know not whether he sees it.

I awake to the smell of baking. Scones, I believe. I sniff appreciatively and cover a yawn with my hand.

"Hello Holmes," Watson smiles at me from his armchair. "How are you feeling old fellow?"

I stretch before tossing aside my Inverness and springing energetically to my feet. "Much better thank you. Was I asleep for very long?"

"Long enough to miss lunch, I'm afraid," he says regretfully as he stands in turn. "Our robotic friend is making scones. He thought that you might enjoy a cream tea."

"You have met him then?" I cannot help feeling somewhat apprehensive. I did, after all, allow the compudroid downstairs to take his place. Well, in a manner of speaking; I actually allowed him to attempt it. Nobody could replace my Watson!

He nods. "I met him while I was staying with Sir Evan Hargreaves. Miss Lestrade introduced us."

I gape at him. "For how long have you been conscious then?"

"Almost a fortnight," he informs me. "Miss Lestrade and Sir Hargreaves wanted to ensure that I was in perfect health and that I had been vaccinated against every curable illness that I might encounter before I left the house."

"Oh good!" I beam a smile at him. "Then we can dine out tonight. I want to celebrate!"

"What about Miss Lestrade? Do you not think that we should thank her for reuniting us?"

I shrug my shoulders. "We could invite her to join us for tea, I suppose, but I would prefer it to be just you and I tonight. I feel we have a great deal of lost time to make up for."

"If you want to dine out we shall," he says quietly. "I have no objections."

I smile fondly at him. "That's my Watson!" I find myself saying. "Give me a moment to contact Lestrade my dear fellow."

He watches me use the communicator with interest. "The telephone has advanced a great deal," he remarks.

I nod. "Everything has changed."

"Yes..." he suddenly sounds apprehensive.

I rest my hand upon his arm. We are together; we have nothing to fear. I address him with my warmest of smiles and squeeze his arm reassuringly.

"Hi Holmes," Lestrade acknowledges suddenly, drawing my attention back to the screen before me. "There's nothing wrong, is there?"

"Not in the slightest," I assure her. "In fact, just the opposite. Are you terribly busy?"

She looks at her watch and then rubs at her temples. "I've got six zedding reports to write for petty crimes."

A pity. "Would it be possible for you to tear yourself away for half an hour?" I ask. "Even the overworked Yarder needs to eat, rest and play."

She huffs a quiet laugh. "OK. You've twisted my arm. See you in ten."

"We shall be looking forward to it," I assure her cheerfully.

Watson raises his eyebrows at me. "It sounds to me as if you shall be looking forward to it!"

I groan and cover my eyes with a hand. "Do not start that old fellow!" I implore him. "We are only friends. Lestrade is one of the only people that has been here when you were not able. She has been good to me."

I feel his hand upon my shoulder. "All the same, I believe that she is the first woman that you have openly called a friend..."

"When you see her on a case, you shall understand," I assure him. "She is..." I shake my head. If I begin to describe her, my frustratingly romantic friend is bound to think that I am attracted to her or some such nonsense!

He chuckles and pats my shoulder. "It is all right Holmes. I shall wait until I see her in action and then form my own opinion of her."

"Doctor Watson?" a tentative voice calls from the living room door.

Thank goodness! An interruption!

"Come in old boy," Watson says as he gets the door.

The compudroid (we really must get him a new name!) enters and sets down an overloaded tea tray that has been piled high with scones, cream, butter, three varieties of jam and a pot of tea for two.

"I shall get another cup," I announce as I go to the door. "Lestrade will be here soon."

I hear the robot turn to follow me as I bound downstairs and then I hear Watson tell him to stay. I smile to myself. Why had I been so worried that my friend of old would be hurt or offended by that droid's presence? He has always been incredibly kind!

When I return to the living room I find man and robot discussing names.

"Why can I not be called 'Doctor'?" the compudroid asks. "I have more medical knowledge than you do; Inspector Lestrade updated my knowledge when Holmes was taken ill."

Watson turns a concerned frown in my direction, the discussion forgotten for a moment. "You have been unwell?"

I set down the extra cup and raise a hand. "I caught a bad cold soon after my... revival... and our friend here feared that I had contracted pneumonia."

The droid snorts. "You had a severe case of influenza Holmes."

I shrug. "Influenza is just a chill with a high fever."

"You never change," Watson groans. "Influenza is not a cold Holmes. It is much more aggressive than a chill and can cause terrible complications; pneumonia being one of them. I seem to recall telling you as much before. More than once."

Probably. It is not a thing that I have to remember in my profession. However, as I gaze at the expressions on the faces of both of my friends, I know that I most likely should make an effort to remember at least some of the things that they tell me.

I rub my hands together and turn my attention to the table. "You have prepared a cream feast for us!" I remark cheerfully.

"I thought that you were bound to be hungry," replies the robot.

I am, I realise. Hungrier than I have been for a very long time! "You were indeed right."

"Holmes, our friend would like us to call him 'Doctor'..."

I smirk at the droid. "'Doctor' who?"

I receive a glare from the robot while Watson nods.

"My point exactly!"

Watson is fortunate enough to have not been subjected to the world of Daleks and Cybermen yet then. It is only a matter of time; Lestrade is very fond of science fiction. The only science fiction production that I have found remotely entertaining so far is Jeff Wayne's musical version of HG Wells' War of the Worlds, of which Lestrade owns a copy of a live on stage performance. The sound track is quite remarkable and more than makes up for the nonsensical subject matter!

"I am not calling you 'Doctor'!" Watson is telling our friend when I return to the present.

I agree. "Why can you not call yourself 'W'?" I ask.

"Oh Holmes!" Watson groans, covering his eyes with a hand. "We want the people that he is introduced to to see him as an individual as opposed to a machine. Giving him a letter for a name is almost as bad as giving him a number!"

I concur. "Well, you are the expert on human touches; what do you suggest?"

"That is unfair," he grumbles as he drums his fingers on the table top. "Well... I suppose my suggestion would have to be that you choose a first name old boy," he says at last, turning to the robot. "The people of this era seem to like the familiarity that comes with first name terms. The first word that I heard when I... uh... returned was 'John', spoken by Miss Lestrade."

I nod. "Yes, she has a tendency to call me 'Sherlock' as well."

"And you let her?" Watson asks incredulously. "I would never have thought to call you by your first name! I know that you dislike it."

It is my turn to grumble and drum my fingers upon the table. "Lestrade enjoys annoying me. I am sure that she would only cease to call me 'Holmes' at all, should I ask her to desist."

My friend is staring at me. I know exactly what is going through his mind.

"They seem to enjoy fighting each other almost as much as they enjoy fighting together against villains," the robot explains helpfully.

I grimace. It is quite true; we both enjoy a bit of conflict.

Watson laughs but says nothing. I am not sure whether he plans to leave the subject that he alluded to earlier well alone or if he has simply decided to discuss it when we are alone. Why is it so difficult for even my closest friend to realise that companionship is all that I want? Why has he never understood that a moment spent in companionable silence with him in our sitting room would mean more to me than a lifetime spent with a wife?

I am relieved to hear the front and hall doors slam one after the other, followed by footsteps charging up the stairs to our living room. I stand and open the door for Lestrade just as she is about to throw it open.

"Zed Holmes! D'you have to do that?" she asks with annoyance as she regains her balance.

I address her with an innocent smile and indicate the table. "Would you care to join us my dear?"

Watson is standing beside the table and pulls her up a chair as she approaches.

"Thank you Watson," she acknowledges quietly.

"Not at all Miss Lestrade."

"You can drop the 'Miss', thanks. Just plain 'Lestrade' is fine; 'specially seeing as we're gonna be working together."

He nods as we both resume our seats. "In that case, might I request that you refrain from calling me 'John'?"

She shrugs. "If that's what you want, Watson."

"Thank you. It is."

Watson's ability to charm women will never cease to amaze me! He even has the fiery Inspector Lestrade metaphorically eating out of his hand!

"Your scones are delicious!" he then congratulates our robotic companion, clearly not being satisfied with charming the Yarder. "I am relieved to see that Holmes has not had to cook his own meals."

I frown at him. "I can fend for myself," I retort. "I believe I have cooked while Mrs. Hudson was away."

"You made breakfast. Once. The eggs were like cannonballs and the toast was charcoal."

"Ha!"

"After that, I did the cooking."

Lestrade looks from Watson to me and back again. "I don't remember reading about that in your journals."

Oh God! Will I ever hear the end of it?

"I am sure that, had I even considered writing about Holmes' culinary efforts (of which he seemed rather proud, despite the results), he would have tossed my journals onto the fire!"

"Come now Watson!"

He stares at me for a moment and then we both begin to laugh.

Lestrade shakes her head. "You're both crazy!"

I turn to Watson and shrug, which seems to cause him to start to laugh again. Of course, I find it difficult to keep myself from laughing while he is chortling away.

Needless to say, by the time the tea things have been put away, I feel quite rejuvenated. I am rested (well, more so than I have been of late) and I have enjoyed both good food and company. I am happier and feeling healthier than I have done since I awoke in New London.

I smile at Lestrade as Watson and I each shake her by the hand and give her our thanks.

"You're welcome," she assures us. She then embraces me, much to my shock.

"Lestrade!" I gasp as she wraps her arms about me. The last time that she did this, I was ill and somewhat tearful and she had believed that I 'needed it'. What excuse has she found on this occasion?

I hear her chuckle. "I thought you might let me take the liberty while you're in a good mood," she pulls away to look me in the face. "Thanks for inviting me over Holmes."

"If you mean to continue to take such liberties, I may not do so again," I warn her with a sniff, averting my gaze.

She looks at me for a long moment and then turns to give Watson the same treatment, not that he minds in the slightest.

I hear my old friend conspiratorially whisper to the Yarder that I was not nearly as affronted as I would have her believe. The damned traitor! "I am still not deaf, Watson."

He tenses and looks rather guilty, but he soon recovers and addresses me with a small smile.

He is right though. I am currently almost giddy with happiness and, as much as I dislike Lestrade's show of familiarity, I am not even remotely annoyed. I wonder for how long this will last.

The robot shuffles forward and looks from me to Watson and back again. "Should I leave now?"

Hum! We have not discussed this yet. I do not want to make him leave now! I would feel as if I only used him as a crutch while I was missing my companion of old. "I do not want you to leave," I tell him honestly, before turning to Watson.

He shakes his head. "Neither do I old chap," he tells the droid with a smile. "I feel I owe you a great deal for all that you must have done for Holmes in my absence. I know how difficult he can be - especially when he succumbs to one of his black moods or an illness."

"Really Watson!" I try to glare at him, but my treacherous face seems to be more inclined to smile. I cannot remember ever being this cheerful!

"Or both at once," I hear Lestrade remark quietly. I know not whether Watson or the robot hear her, for the matter is not expanded upon (much to my relief! I know that I was particularly insufferable when I had my most recent cold).

The droid smiles happily and turns to the Yarder. "I am going to live here!"

She pats his shoulder. "'Course you are! This is your home," she grimaces and squares her shoulders. "Well, duty calls... I've still got those zedding reports waiting for me on my desk and they sure as zed aren't gonna write themselves. If I don't get back to them, I'll be taking 'em home with me tonight."

Yet she still lingers.

"Bye John," she says quietly as she embraces our robotic friend, choosing his name for him. "Keep an eye on my charges for me."

He looks rather taken aback for a moment. "Of course Lestrade," he says after a long pause. "It will be my pleasure."

"I shall see you out," Watson offers. "Did you bring a coat Lestrade? That sky looks rather ominous..."

"She never brings a coat," I call down the stairs after them. "She relies on her car's heater when it is cold."

Even when she came after me when I was drowning myself in the cemetery, she had only been clothed in her uniform. Had I not been so terribly cold and miserable, I would have picked up on that at the time.

I hear Watson admonish her about her lack of care and smirk to myself. After all the nagging that I have received from her of late, it is rather gratifying to see that the shoe is on the other foot. I hear the front door close as the police hovercar tears away.

"Well," my old friend remarks when he joins us in the living room. "She is certainly a law unto herself!" he laughs and shakes his head. "She even managed to embrace you with very little resistance, Holmes!"

I shrug expressively. "I am in a good mood."

"Clearly," he laughs again and claps his hands upon my shoulders. "Oh! But it is good to see you! The last two weeks have been the longest in living memory. A fortnight of torture!"

I do not tell him what it has been like for me. To wake up in a strange place, only to find that the one person that you have ever trusted without question was not restored to life with you... The pain, anguish, that I have felt!

"Holmes?" Watson is gripping me tightly. "Are you quite well?"

I nod and draw a somewhat shaky breath.

"Would you like some brandy?"

"I'll get it," I hear John volunteer.

"Thank you old boy," Watson guides me to the settee and seats us both side by side. "You do look ill Holmes! Perhaps we should stay at home tonight..."

I shake my head and smile at him. "I am all right."

He presses his hand to my forehead. "You always say that. Damn! I wish that I had my bag."

John comes to the settee and hands him a rather full brandy glass. "I could give Holmes an examination," he offers helpfully. "I can read his temperature at a glance and I can also monitor vitals. I could even scan his internal workings, if you so wished."

Perhaps I should have sent him packing! "Really John! As I just told Watson here, I am quite all right."

"Let John put my mind at rest Holmes," Watson requests quietly. "I only want to know that the strain of the last few months has not been too much."

I give my consent grudgingly, if only so that I shall be allowed to leave the house tonight.

"His temperature is a little lower than is normal, but his vitals are as they should be," John announces as he concludes his check-up. "The drop in his temperature is clearly due to his overtiredness; he has been shivering all day."

Watson nods his agreement and pulls me closer to him. The contact is reassuring as well as warming; I still feel as if he might disappear should I look away. I shiver slightly and press myself into him. I am suddenly aware of the beginnings of a headache and I realise that I still feel chilled and tired.

"Could you get a blanket John?" I hear Watson ask as I allow my head to drop onto his shoulder and draw my legs up beneath me in an effort to warm them. "Holmes is shivering again."

I yawn and sniff. "I think I shall just rest my eyes for a moment..."

"Of course," my companion of old responds quietly. "Take all the time you need."

I awake to find that my head is still resting at Watson's shoulder while his head rests against mine. We have a blanket covering us both and I am warm and comfortable. I smile to myself as I permit my drowsy brain to begin to function properly.

Watson awakes soon after me with a weary moan. I am clearly not the only one that has found sleep difficult to come by.

"Are you quite well old fellow?" I ask softly.

He sniffs quietly and stretches his legs. "Mm. Yes thank you," he turns his attention upon me. "How are you feeling Holmes? Your hands were like ice when you curled up beside me!"

They would have been. I was cold! I shrug and smile at him. "I am perfectly all right Watson. I simply am feeling the affects of lost sleep."

He nods. "I do think that we should stay here tonight. If you feel as cold as your hands would suggest, you are going to be terribly susceptible to colds and chills. Fatigue is not good for the immune system in any case."

I begin my protests in vain.

"Doctor Watson is quite right Holmes," John interrupts. "You need rest. As a matter of fact, I suspect that you both do."

It is true; my dear old friend does seem rather weary. I notice that he also appears to be pale. I agree for his sake; I would not want to cause him harm.

Watson closes his eyes and gives a slight smile and nod of gratitude.

"You are sure that you are quite well?" I ask him quietly.

He nods and sniffs. "It is the vaccinations that I had forced upon me," he explains. "I have been feeling somewhat under the weather since the last of them were given to me."

I understand perfectly, for I had the same experience. "Headache, weariness and a general feeling of malaise?"

He nods and yawns. "I am told that it is quite normal."

I nod in turn. "I was told the same, but it is still unpleasant. Of course we should stay at home! Your poor body is working hard to come to terms with all that has been forced upon it!"

He moans and rests his head upon my shoulder. "Thank you."

I take his hand in mine, knowing now that we both need some comfort. "Why did you not tell me?"

He yawns quietly. "I did not want to disappoint you. I know that you like to go out and I am sure that you have much to show me."

I shrug. "New London will still be there when we have fully recovered."

He yawns again and I find myself replying in kind. I know not which of us returns to slumber first.

I awake shivering to find myself alone. I look about me for a moment and then close my eyes. He is gone. He was clearly never here. Why does my wretched brain torture me so? Perhaps I could adjust if I could just be allowed to leave the past behind me!

The bathroom door opens. "Holmes!"

I look up to see Watson regarding me with concern.

He hurries to my side and rests a hand upon my shoulder as he resumes his seat. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"Nothing," I assure him.

He frowns at me. "You look dreadful! I have never seen you with such a miserable expression on your face. Do you feel worse?"

I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. "I thought that I had been dreaming."

He sighs and wraps his arm around me. "I am here dear chap. I am not going anywhere."

His ability to understand and support me with ease astounds me. How I have missed him! "How are you feeling?" I ask, remembering that he is still feeling the after-affects of his recent vaccination.

"A little better. I probably only need sleep," he chuckles quietly. "Sir Evan Hargreaves agreed that I should be reunited with you as soon as was possible when I became too restless while we were separated, for the sake of my own well being."

I laugh quietly. "It has been much the same with me in your absence," I confess.

"So I have heard," he replies somewhat severely. "I understand that you have made yourself ill on more than one occasion; to the point where Lestrade decided that enough was enough and that she would have to reunite us before you did yourself lasting damage."

It is quite true. "It was not a deliberate act old fellow," I assure him. "I simply could not bear the separation. It was... difficult... painful..."

He nods and pats my shoulder. "I am sure that it was; it was difficult and painful enough for me when I believed you to be dead, even when I had Mary's support."

I do not know quite what to say. I sniff and look away. "I am truly sorry."

Again Watson pats my shoulder. "You did what you had to in order to protect me. I am quite certain that I would do the same. Regardless of the pain that it would cause us both."

"I did not know how much pain I must have caused you until..." I slam my eyes shut. I do not wish to discuss that.

He squeezes my shoulder. "I am also very sorry. I should not have sent for you when I..." he clears his throat awkwardly. "I could see the pain in your face the moment that you entered my room. I know how strong your resolve is and to see it broken in such a way was almost more than I could bear!"

I shake my head. "It would have been much worse for me had I not been able to say goodbye."

He smiles at me. "Then I am glad that I made the right decision. I was not sure that I had."

How he tortures himself on my account! "My dear old Watson," I mumble sleepily.

He rubs my back gently. "I can assure you that I am not about to disappear into the ether Holmes. You can go back to sleep."

John pokes his head around the door at that moment. "Actually, I was just about to serve dinner, if you are hungry. It is only curried chicken, I fear."

I smile at him as I force myself into full wakefulness. "Curried chicken would be wonderful old lad!"

"Are you hungry then?" Watson asks.

I nod and stifle a yawn. "I believe I am."

"Splendid!" John smiles happily.

Neither of us eat as much as we had expected. I blame the large cream tea, but I believe that it is most likely due to our fatigue and the events of the day. I doubt that either one of us will have very much difficulty in sleeping tonight, despite our napping during the day.


	4. Trying to Adapt

I awake in the darkness at the sound of a cry from above.

"Watson!" I gasp as I come to my senses. I hope that he is all right.

Without hesitation I dash out onto the landing and race up the stairs to his room. I am met by a loud crash as I step onto his landing.

"Watson?" I call gently as I carefully open the door of his room and peer around it in the gloom. I should have thought to bring a light with me!

There is a groan from the floor on the other side of the bed and I enter quickly and make my way to his side.

"Sorry Holmes," my friend whispers tiredly. "My bed is somewhat narrower than the one that Sir Evan Hargreaves gave me while I was staying with him."

I smile at him fondly and stifle a yawn as I crouch beside him. "It is not your fault. Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head. "I was only disorientated by the dream and waking on the floor."

All the same, I light his lamp so that I can see well enough to check him over. "You are hot!" I gasp when I rest a hand upon his forehead.

"No, your hands are cold," he argues as he brushes me off. "You are still overly tired and you are not even wearing a dressing gown. You must be freezing Holmes!"

I shiver slightly. Hum! He is probably right. "All the same, we really should get you back into bed. Would you like me to sit with you for a while?" I still want to stay close to my recently returned friend, for I can hardly believe that I have him back.

He picks himself up with little help and scrambles between his sheets. "I would be much happier if you would go back to your own bed and get beneath your covers before you catch a chill."

I sit beside him on his bed, ignoring his concern. "I am perfectly all right my dear fellow. Now, I shall stay until you return to Morpheus, for I know that you struggle after a bad dream as much as I do."

He smiles and pats my cold hand. "Could you do something for me then?"

"Anything my dear Watson! What do you need?"

He yawns quietly. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"Of course," I am about to charge away again when I am called back.

"I can wait a moment longer while you put your dressing gown on," he tells me quietly. "You really should keep warm and you are already quite chilled."

If it will only put his mind at rest! I agree and hurry first into my room and then down to the kitchen.

I sit beside my friend when I return to his room and hand him the water that I fetched for him.

Watson drinks most of it and then sets the glass on his bedside table. "Thank you Holmes."

I pull my dressing gown closer and take his hand. "Try to sleep my dear fellow. You are quite safe."

He settles down with a sigh and gazes up at me. "I am so sorry to have disturbed you."

I press the index finger of my free hand to my lips and give him a small smile. "It is quite all right."

He yawns, I yawn... and then there is daylight streaming in through the curtains and I am shivering again. I get up carefully so as to avoid waking my quietly snoring companion and make my way downstairs to begin my morning routine.

Watson is still asleep when John enters the living room with the breakfast things. I would be tempted to let him sleep on, but I am hungry and I know that he must be as well. I decide to ask John to ensure that he is all right.

When Watson joins me at the table, he addresses me with what would appear to be a glare of reproach.

"Is something wrong my dear fellow?" I ask as I pour him a cup of tea.

He sniffs and sits opposite me. "You told John to examine me. Why?"

I pause in my task to address him with an askance expression. "I only asked him to see whether you were ready for your breakfast. Neither of us had very much to eat last night; you must be starving!"

"Well, he told me different," my companion growls at me.

Ah, I am clearly going to be subjected to a day spent with Watson the bear. "Perhaps it is as well that John did misunderstand my meaning old fellow," I retort, being careful to keep my tone calm. "You are out of sorts this morning. It is not your leg, I hope?"

"There is nothing wrong with my damned leg Holmes! My body has been restored to the way that it was before the Afghan War, just as your own body has been restored and made young again."

I hand him his tea, which (I hope) I have prepared as he likes it. Today, he will most certainly inform me if I have not. "I am glad that your old wound will not trouble you," I remark with a cheerful smile. "I know that it used to pain you terribly."

He sips the tea and closes his eyes tiredly.

"You are still weary!" I realise. "Would you like to go back to your bed?"

He gives me another glare and sniffs again. "Do not fuss Holmes."

I frown at him and shrug with my hands. "I only wish to help! You are not yourself my dear Watson."

He nods and gives a weary sigh before apologising. "I did not mean it."

"Of course not," I smile encouragingly at him. "Would you like to tell me what is wrong now? You know that I shall do all that I can."

He sips at his tea and I busy myself with my breakfast. I shall give the fellow all the time that he might require; he did not rush me in the slightest yesterday.

"How am I supposed to earn my keep Holmes?" he asks at last in a rather despondent tone. "I can hardly be called a doctor! My medical knowledge is terribly out of date, as John has already pointed out."

I consider this very carefully, for the last thing that I want to do is to make an off-the-cuff reply. My friend is clearly unnerved and upset.

I stand and walk around the table until I am behind him and rest my hands upon his shoulders. "My dear Watson," I say quietly. "New Scotland Yard pays me very well for the work that I do and I am sure that Lestrade will ensure that you are treated in kind..."

"But Holmes..."

I gaze down at him as he looks up into my face. "I know that you are accustomed to making your own contribution in your own way and I am sure that you can retrain as a doctor quite easily; in the meantime, however, you can fund yourself by working alongside me for the Yard. We both know that you are good at it."

I receive a small smile and relax somewhat. My poor Watson! I had not realised that he would be so upset.

I pat his shoulders and return to my seat. "How are you feeling this morning?" I ask him. "You were clearly feeling quite unwell yesterday." That reminds me; I really should ask John to purchase some paracetamol during his next shop. The pills that Lestrade issues me with when I am under the weather work wonders and I am sure that Watson would benefit from taking some.

He sniffs again. "I feel better than I did yesterday."

"Splendid," I reply cheerfully. All the same, I plan to keep him inside and out of the elements again today. Even with the fire lit, I am aware of the chill from the bay window and I have no intention of causing my companion to catch his first cold. I seem to recall that he was always the more susceptible than I.

Watson is waving a hand at me. "Holmes? Are you listening?"

I blink and give my head a shake as I hastily call back to mind the words that he had been saying. "Dinner?"

He frowns at me. "I was saying that I believe that I shall be feeling well enough to dine out tonight."

"That's my Watson! Always so very eager to please me," I pat his hand. "I think that you should decide upon that tonight. I know that I am still bone weary and you are probably quite done up as well."

He looks somewhat hurt and I squeeze his hand reassuringly.

"If you still wish to go out later, we shall. I simply do not want you to feel that we must."

He gives another quiet sniff. "Well... all right Holmes."

I do not like the sound of those sniffles. I know my Watson; sniffles usually indicate fatigue, hunger or impending illness. It is most certainly not hunger; I hope that he is only done up! I smile at him jovially as I carefully ignore this indication that he is still not himself. "What would you like to do this morning?" I ask him.

He shrugs his shoulders. "How do you spend your days when you have nothing to do?"

That is a good question. Up until now, I was in the habit of visiting the cemetery, but there is no longer any need. I would be tempted to pull out the chess set, which I have not bothered with since it became clear that John could best me with no effort at all, but I suspect that neither of us would be up to our usual standard.

Watson is looking about the room thoughtfully, clearly observing the items that are absent.

"Do you know how to use a computer?" I ask him. "Everything seems to require some computer skills in this era."

He shakes his head. "Up until yesterday, I have been convalescing; my revival was a difficult one."

I sit up straighter. "Would you care to tell me about it?" I ask him. "Lestrade informed me, on more than one occasion, that you could not be restored to me at all. I should like to know how I come to be so fortunate as to have you back."

"Sir Evan Hargreaves agreed to at least try for your sake," he explains quietly. "Lestrade had not realised just how badly you would miss me or how much the separation would hurt you. When it began to make you ill, she came to see that something had to be done."

I nod and run a hand over my face. "I am terribly sorry Watson..."

"Whatever for Holmes?" he asks in surprise. "I am glad to be given another chance! Look at me! I am young again and with none of the reminders of the Afghan War. I am sure that I shall be of much more use to you."

I squeeze his arm earnestly across the table. "You do not have to be of use to me my dear fellow! It is you that I have missed, not your assistance," I release him and settle back in my seat with a small smile. "Not that your assistance will not be welcomed as it always has been, of course."

He returns my smile with one of his own. "Thank you Holmes. I must admit, I do feel somewhat... lost..."

"There you have my utmost sympathy, for I know exactly how you feel," I touch his hand with my fingertips. "But we have each other now; whatever we must face we can face together. I know that we shall be all right."

He smiles at me brightly and takes my hand. "Thank you Holmes. That does make all the difference."

"I am glad," I settle back again and close my eyes. "Please continue. How did Sir Evan come to perform the impossible?"

"It was not as difficult as he first believed, because the cemetery that I was buried in had heavy clay soil, which encased and preserved my body rather well, under the circumstances.

"The most difficult part was removing my body from its resting place without your knowledge, for you would have noticed that the ground had been disturbed. Lestrade had the idea of having the cemetery closed off until I was awake.

"I was in a rather more unpleasant condition than you had been and so the process took much longer. I believe that you were conscious after only a few hours," he shakes his head. "In my case, it took months. It was a long and difficult procedure and at first, it looked as if it would not work at all; that is why my being returned to you was kept secret. Sir Evan and Lestrade did not wish to build your hopes up only for them to be dashed to pieces."

I smile and nod. "I understand perfectly. I have been rather... unstable in your absence."

"Under the circumstances, I am hardly surprised!" he pats my hand gently. "When I awoke, I did feel rejuvenated; I felt a great deal better than I had done, even in much of my youth. My old wound was gone without a trace, as were the many much less bothersome reminders that I had gained during our adventures together.

"Indeed, I felt ready to return to you at once! However, I was forced to go through a series of medical examinations to ensure that the procedure had indeed been successful and, once I had received a full bill of health, I was subjected to a long list of vaccinations. They left me feeling frightfully unwell and as a result my meeting with you was supposed to be put off. That changed yesterday, when John became concerned that you were becoming severely ill."

Ah yes, I vaguely remember the whispered exchange between robot and Yarder. I realise now that it had been Watson who was not ready, not me. I gaze at him with concern. "And how are you now?"

"I am quite well Holmes," he assures me. "I do feel all the better for being here with you again," he shakes his head and sniffs. "I am sorry that I snapped at you as I did this morning."

"Pooh! You did not mean it," I wave a dismissive hand. "I was much more concerned about you my dear fellow. It is seldom indeed that you to turn into such a bear."

He meets my gaze with an apologetic smile. "I suppose that that dream unnerved me last night."

"Would you care to...?"

"No!" he snaps before calming himself. "No Holmes, I do not wish to discuss it. I would rather forget all about it."

"The offer shall remain open should you change your mind," I assure him with a good stretch. I am still feeling fagged! For how long will I be like this? How much sleep have I lost? I get up from the table and sit myself in the bay window.

"Are you cold?" Watson asks when I give a slight shiver. "Perhaps you should sit beside the fire Holmes."

"It is the weather," I assure him. "Look at it Watson!"

He sniffs again and begins to butter himself another piece of toast. "I do not have to; I can hear the rain hurling itself against the windows from here. I hope that we have no reason to venture out into that!"

I assure him that we do not with a somewhat poorly-suppressed shiver. I have not forgotten Lestrade's warning in regard to dangerous driving conditions and I have no intention of endangering his life in such a fashion. I stand and draw the curtains, shutting out the horrible weather and stopping the worst of the draught.

We spend the morning playing dominos while John shops, followed by cards upon his return. Naturally, being a robot, John finds the games rather too easy and wins most of the rounds.

It is approaching noon when I decide that I have had enough. Even with the lights turned up, it has become rather dark in our living room and the dim lighting is making me feel ready for sleep.

"I shall make lunch," John announces as I throw in my hand and take to my chair beside the hearth. "What would you like?"

I hear Watson request something warming; the sound of the rain and the darkness is obviously playing on his mind as much as it is mine. He joins me at the fireside and takes to his chair, stretching out his legs in order to warm his feet in front of the hearth.

"Cold Watson?" I ask him.

He nods and shivers. "It is the sound of that rain! It is dreadful!"

I agree and stand to fetch him a blanket from the airing cupboard. I am just crossing our landing when I feel a chill draught from downstairs and hear the front door slam shut.

"Z-zedding w-weather!" Lestrade's voice growls as she throws the hall door open and begins to slowly stamp her way up our stairs.

I retrieve a bundle of blankets, noting that the inspector sounds rather cold, and return to the sitting room. I toss the majority of the rugs upon the settee and then wrap one of them about Watson.

"Thank you Holmes."

I pat his shoulder and smile at him. "We have company Watson. Do not get up."

He frowns at me and is about to ask for an explanation when the door bursts open.

I turn to Lestrade with a sarcastic greeting ready, but the words are immediately forgotten. She is clearly suffering the effects of exposure to the elements, for her lips are blue and her skin pale with cold. However, her nose is becoming quite red and her eyes are puffy and dull. I suspect that it is rather too late to hope that she is not becoming unwell.

"You are rather wet Lestrade," I remark as I snatch up one of the blankets and drape it about her quaking shoulders.

"Great d-deduction Holmes," she mutters. Her voice is congested and she sounds utterly miserable. Yes, it is much too late.

I conceal a grimace. "You have caught a cold my dear," I note. "Sit yourself beside the fire and warm yourself." I behave myself and refrain from pointing out that this is the very reason why she should always keep an overcoat and umbrella with her.

Watson is immediately a flurry of activity. He offers her his chair and hurries to fetch some towels from the bathroom while I go down to the kitchen and inform John that we have a guest staying for lunch.

When I return to the living room, I discover that Watson has made the Yarder comfortable and has dosed her with brandy. I note that she must be feeling terribly cold and unwell, for she is drinking it with gratitude when she would usually refuse alcohol.

"How are you feeling?" my companion asks her gently.

She shivers and sniffs. "Not s-so good."

"Clearly," I respond as I take to the settee and motion for Watson to sit at my side. "I could see that much in your face when you entered the room."

She sniffs again and sets her glass aside before giving a rather violent sneeze into her hand. "Atchoo! Well, nothing g-gets p-past you, does it?"

I ignore her half-hearted attempt at sarcasm. "What brings you here on such a beautiful day Lestrade? A case?"

She shakes her head and pulls the blanket closer. "Sh-sh-shelter."

"What happened?" I ask somewhat wearily as I hand her my handkerchief. Her uniform does not seem to permit her to carry such an item and I can see that she is doing her utmost to keep herself from sneezing further. "How do you come to be so frightfully cold and wet?"

"Atchoo! Choo!" she grimaces and sniffs while my companion blesses her. "My z-zedding cruiser b-broke d-d-down th-three blocks aw-w-way. I had t-to d-d-decide between w-walking home or c-c-coming here."

I am tempted to remind her that she scolded me terribly for attempting to drive in such conditions during our last severe storm, but I bite my tongue for now. There will be plenty of time for such things later.

"I hope that you were not injured," Watson remarks quietly. "I do not like those flying cars. They are terribly dangerous!"

"Like any mode of transport, my dear Watson, they are only as dangerous as their driver," I retort with a smile. "You will get used to them."

"A hansom cab was not liable to fall out of the sky if the horse lost a shoe or an axle were to break Holmes," he retorts quietly. "I should think that I have every reason to be unnerved by them!"

"They are quite safe," I assure him.

"Choo!" Lestrade moans quietly and blows her nose. "Holmes hardly ever c-clings to his s-seat when he's in my car w-with me now; he's g-got used to 'em."

Is that supposed to be amusing? I keep myself from pointing out that Lestrade's driving is usually fast and reckless, for I do not want to add to my companion's fear of the new vehicles.

"Bless you," my friend stands and approaches the Yarder with concern. "Is there anything more that we can do for you?"

She shakes her head and gives her nose another quiet blow. "I'll b-be OK. Thanks W-watson."

I would like my companion to keep his distance, but I know that it would be unwise to say as much. His license and knowledge may be rather out of date, but Watson is still a doctor.

"At least your shivering is becoming less violent," he notes with a smile. "Do you feel warmer?"

She nods and huddles further into the blanket. "Yes th-thanks."

"Good!" he touches her forehead gently. "You are not fevered. I hope that that means that you only have a cold."

I wait until Watson has done all that he can for our friend and then I crouch before her. "Did you report your car as being unserviceable?"

"Of c-course I did," she growls at me. "I'm not zedding incomp-petent!"

I hold up a hand. "I did not say that you were Lestrade. I simply wish to know why you came here, when you really should have gone home to change your clothes."

She blows her nose again and shivers. "The g-guy that they s-sent to pick up my cruiser d-didn't wanna g-give me a lift."

"The blackguard!" Watson explodes. "Why ever not?"

She shrugs and attempts to huddle further into the blanket.

"Because every profession has its share of cads," I reply for the Yarder, patting her hand. She must be freezing! Her hands are like ice. I take her hands in mine and do my utmost to warm them.

Grayson is going to hear about this! Lestrade may be a fully fledged inspector of the Yard, but she is still a young lady. Her uniform is hardly what I would call warm clothing, nor is it particularly waterproof, and she should not have been left to walk home in such dreadful conditions! She is rather lucky to have only caught a chill and I very much doubt that she would have been so fortunate if she had been forced to walk the distance to her own home.

"I'm OK. R-really."

I nod and stand up, exchanging a concerned glance with Watson. "I shall draw you a warming bath and loan you a change of clothes. You are going to catch your death if you do not get out of that wet uniform and I can assure you that I am not going to work with any other Yarder."

She chuckles at that. "Nobody else 'd p-put up with you."

I smile at her. "Which is exactly my reason for wanting you back on your feet as soon as you can manage my dear Lestrade."

I pull out one of my disguises for her as I leave the bath filling. I doubt that it will fit her, but the fabric is thick and comfortable at least. I add a belt and a pair of slippers to the pile of clothing and place them on the chair inside the bathroom door. This done, I ensure that the water is not too hot, keeping in mind the treatment that John gave me when I was suffering with exposure to the cold.

Lestrade enters the bathroom as I am preparing to leave it. "Thanks Holmes," she acknowledges quietly. "It's good of you and Watson to take c-care of me like this."

I raise a finger and shake my head. "We both know that you would do the same my dear. In any case, this is my way of returning the kindness that you showed to me when I was unwell."

"You had the 'flu!"

I frown at her. "And you are lucky that you have not contracted pneumonia; as is New Scotland Yard, for that matter. Now, that bath water is only moderately hotter than room temperature. If it is too cold for you, add more heat to it but do have a care; if you are as cold as you appear you could easily be scalded."

I know that somebody should stay with her, as our robotic companion did with me when I was ailing due to exposure, but I am not at all sure whether she will be very comfortable with me or Watson helping her to bathe. Her being female makes the situation somewhat awkward. I step outside and ask Watson to listen out for the Yarder before making my way downstairs to the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" John asks when I enter. "The stew is simmering; it should be ready in half an hour."

"It smells delicious," I remark with a smile. I then describe Lestrade's condition and explain that I have come down for medicines and a warming drink for her.

The robot seems angry at first but he calms himself quickly enough. "If Lestrade is not falling asleep, she should not be in any danger. You were right to allow her some privacy and Doctor Watson knows what to do should she become severely unwell."

I nod. "Yes, I know that she is safe with Watson. She is much safer than she would be in my care, in fact, for I would not know what to do during a medical emergency."

"You have no reason to know what to do in such an emergency Holmes," he responds kindly. "Now, what was it that you wanted?"

I am already riffling through the cupboards. "I was going to make her a honey drink. That should do her some good. Watson has already given her some brandy..."

The droid groans. "He should not have done that! How much brandy?"

I shrug. "A nip John; only a small one. Furthermore, before you start to complain about what he should and should not have done, I should like you to know that she was glad of it and that it seems to have perked her up nicely."

"But that is beside the point Holmes! The point is that alcohol only causes a person to feel warmer and can actually cause the onset of hypothermia! Furthermore, it should not be mixed with medication. I was going to suggest that you take her a hot paracetamol drink, but that would not be very wise."

I grimace at the memory of the things. "I think I would much prefer a hot honey or lemon drink. Those purple drinks are quite disgusting!"

"Yes, I know that you find their flavour too artificial; you have taken every opportunity to remind me!" he shakes his head wearily. "Fear not Holmes, I have stocked the medicine cupboard with the pills that Lestrade recommended."

The fellow is becoming rather good at sarcasm. I ignore it, for I do not believe it to be a thing that should be encouraged. "Which is the medicine cupboard?" I ask instead.

"The thin one on the end there," he replies, pointing at the narrowest of the wall-mounted cupboards.

I am surprised to find that we are well stocked with first aid items as well as medicines. John clearly has felt the need to prepare for every eventuality. I take a packet of paracetamol and place that on the tea tray, for I know not whether Watson will want some and I hardly want to have to make another journey downstairs if it can be avoided.

I make Lestrade a honey drink and add a jug of water to the selection on the tray; along with two tumblers.

"I should like that tray back Holmes," my companion requests. "I shall want it when lunch is ready."

Yes, of course he will. I agree to bring it back directly and return to our living room.


	5. Returning a Favour

Lunch is a far cry from our little tea party of yesterday. Lestrade is clearly feeling dreadful and is remarkably miserable and bad tempered as a result.

"Sorry," she mumbles at last as she pushes away the dish of stew that she has been picking at for over an hour. "Guess I'm not hungry."

I sit beside her and begin to cut up the pieces of food for her. "I could feed you, if you like..." I try to keep the amusement from my tone, but the memory of her attempting to feed me while I was recovering from influenza is fresh in my mind.

"Holmes... please... I'm too tired," she groans as I offer her a small quantity of her stew.

"Do not force her," Watson advises me quietly as he stands up. "You of all people should know how unpleasant it feels to force oneself to eat while one has little or no appetite."

I nod in agreement and help him to make our ill friend comfortable on our settee. She is frightfully pale.

"How are you feeling?" Watson asks as he hovers at her side.

She groans and rubs a hand across her forehead. "I'm OK. Really. I just need to get home and rest a little."

He nods. "Sleep is the best cure for a chill. Take some medicine and have a rest; John will take you home when the wind drops."

I hand her two pills and a glass of water. She swallows the pills and gulps down most of the water eagerly.

"I'm real sorry..." she mumbles as she sets aside her glass and curls up upon the settee. "I didn't mean to invade like this. You must have a lot of..." she gives a tremendous yawn. "...catching up to do. 'Scuse me."

Watson pats her hand gently. "It is quite all right. Please sleep; Holmes and I are watching over you."

I address her with a reassuring smile. "You have cared for me while I was unwell; it is a pleasure to return some of your kindness."

"You had 'flu Holmes. High fever... nausea... d'lirium..."

"Quite so," I deliberately avoid meeting Watson's gaze.

"I'm not that sick..."

I frown at her. "And how ill do you want to be, exactly? You are clearly in quite enough discomfort. Come now, try to sleep."

I retrieve the electronic instrument that the Yarder kindly bought for me and prepare to play a piece of music that I know that she particularly likes.

"Mm..." she smiles up at me and settles down as the electronic voice of the 'keytar' fills the room.

By the time the piece is finished, Lestrade is in a peaceful slumber. I feel Watson's hand upon my arm and meet his gaze.

"I do not believe that I have heard that piece before. It is one of your own?"

I shake my head. "It is taken from a musical that she particularly enjoys. The piece is called 'The Red Weed'."

"It sounded rather morose to me," he remarks. "Hardly the sort of thing that I would want to listen to if I was feeling ill."

I shrug. "Music and art affect us all differently," I note. "What would seem beautiful to one chap could be quite repulsive to another; it is all a matter of perception."

He nods his agreement and takes to his chair with a weary sigh. I see him run a hand over his face.

"Are you all right Watson?" I ask with concern.

He nods and sniffs. "I am only tired Holmes."

I cover him with a blanket and add some more fuel to the fire. I hardly want my Watson to become unwell, for it is quite bad enough to be forced to watch Lestrade suffer. I sit opposite my friend in my own armchair and lean back wearily.

"You are also tired," my companion notes as I stifle a yawn.

Hum. I forget just how very perceptive my Watson is; there are few people indeed that would notice one of my carefully concealed yawns. I shrug and prop my head in my palm as I lean against the arm of my chair. "I am quite all right."

He adjusts his blanket about him and sniffs quietly. "Where did you want to dine out?" he asks, changing the subject.

My fatigue is forgotten instantly. I leap from my armchair and take to my desk to start up my computer. "What would you like to eat?" I call over my shoulder.

"Holmes, do be quiet. You shall wake Lestrade."

I grimace and turn an apologetic glance in his direction as he crouches beside the settee to check on our companion.

"No harm done," he whispers as he comes to stand behind me and rest a hand on my shoulder. "Now, what are you doing?"

I explain the many uses of the computer in as concise a manner as I am able before launching the Internet and searching for the best restaurants in New London.

"What is a hamburger?" my friend asks as we browse the numerous reviews together.

I grimace. "It is a New Age 'delicacy' Watson. They are eaten with one's fingers, are incredibly messy and taste quite disgusting. We shall avoid those."

We are still discussing dinner when John returns from the washing up. He drags his chair close to the settee and begins his tireless vigil over Lestrade. As a result, my companion and I relax somewhat as we no longer feel compelled to listen out for our ill friend.

We eventually decide upon a traditional restaurant that overlooks the Thames. I book a table for two at seven PM and smile at my companion. "It will be rather like the old days Watson. Perhaps we could take an after dinner stroll beside the river before we go home."

John looks up and frowns at me. "I would much prefer for you to stay in the warm and dry, if you do not mind. I hardly want you and Doctor Watson to become as ill as poor Lestrade here."

"The weather is supposed to improve considerably by six tonight," I inform the robot. "I have already looked at the forecast."

He is still far from happy. "And where exactly are you going to? How do you plan to get there? Will you be drinking or are you going to drive?"

I raise a finger and conceal my amusement, which of course is a wasted effort where John and Watson are concerned. "We are going to a five star restaurant on the waterfront, opposite Westminster. I was going to order a cab both ways; why do you ask?"

"Why would you want a cab?" he asks. "I would be happy to drive you both."

Watson touches my arm. "Do the cabs fly as well?"

He is nervous! I pat the hand that is gripping my arm rather tightly. "All of the transportation that would have travelled by road flies."

My companion's face turns an odd colour. "Can we not walk?"

"We are not going to be able to walk everywhere," I remind him gently. "I think that you should get used to the transportation now, before we are forced to undertake a long journey in a hovercar."

He grimaces but bows to my logic. "I hope that John's driving is not too fast or reckless," he whispers.

The compudroid looks up sharply. "No fear!" he retorts with a grimace. "I drive very safely, which is more than can be said for Holmes or Lestrade."

"Thank you for your help John," I growl quietly. Poor Watson! I have never before seen him like this! I take the hand that is still gripping my arm and squeeze it gently. "I perceive that you have been in a car with Lestrade at the wheel."

He nods and swallows awkwardly. "Had I known what the experience would have been like, I would have had less to eat before we left Sir Evan's. I believe that I would have been sick, had the journey lasted for very much longer."

That would explain his pallid complexion upon his arrival at Baker Street. I had put that down to those horrible inoculations but now I find that he had undergone a harrowing journey with Lestrade as well. It is little wonder that he felt so unwell yesterday! "My poor Watson! What the devil did she do to you?"

He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head. "I would rather not dwell on it Holmes."

"Well, I can assure you that John is an excellent driver. You have nothing to fear."

My companion suddenly looks embarrassed and pulls his hand from my grip. "What must you think of me?"

"I think that you have a great deal to learn and become accustomed to," I respond in my gentlest, kindest of tones. "I do know how you feel Watson. Lestrade's driving still unnerves me at times; especially when she decides to flip the car onto its side in order to squeeze between two buildings..."

For a horrible moment, I think that my companion is about to vomit. I believe that he fears the same, for he screws his eyes shut, rests a shaking hand upon his stomach and begins to take deep, calming breaths.

"Are you all right?" I ask with concern. Perhaps I should get him some water.

He nods. "Can we discuss something else please?" he asks quietly. "I do not think that I will be able to get into one of those cars at all if we do not change the subject soon."

I pat his arm gently and we begin to make plans for the evening instead. We look at the menu on the restaurant's website, including the wine list, and then consult further websites regarding entertainment. I am still rather in favour of an after dinner stroll to walk off some of the food, but I am prepared to listen to any suggestions from Watson. I want this evening to revolve around him for a change, for he always has submitted to my whims without a word of objection or complaint.

The wind slowly calms and has almost died away completely by the time our ill friend awakes. I had been tempted to urge John to take her home and put her to bed the moment that the conditions allowed, but Watson had argued that she might feel that we wish to be rid of her.

Lestrade is sitting up now and drinking some water. She assures us that she is feeling much better, but her face is still terribly pale and flushed and her voice is barely audible. I believe that she simply does not wish to trouble us.

Watson is clearly of the same opinion, for he sits beside her on the settee and rests a hand upon her forehead. "Are you quite sure that you are all right?" he asks gently. "You have a fever. Not a very high one, but a fever none the less."

"38 degrees Celsius, 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit," John informs us helpfully.

She turns away quickly and sets aside the almost empty glass. "Atchoo! Choo!" she shivers and sniffs desperately as she casts about for the handkerchief that I had given to her before she fell asleep.

My companion gently touches her arm and provides her with his. "Use this; it is clean," he advises her softly.

She takes the cloth from him gratefully with mumbled thanks before blowing her nose quietly.

It surprises me that someone so inclined to shout and stamp about can stifle her sneezes and blow her nose in such a quiet manner; I would have expected her to make a tremendous din in all that she does.

"How are you feeling?" Watson asks her again.

She shakes her head and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I promise you, I'll be OK. I can take care of myself at home. If you and Holmes catch this thing, it'll hit you just as hard. Maybe harder."

"I seem to recall urging you to keep your distance when I had influenza," I remind her. "Yet you did just the opposite."

"Yeah, I didn't have much choice. You were really sick Holmes!" she coughs into the handkerchief, being careful to turn away. "John couldn't stay up with you and there wasn't anyone else. Not that I minded. You're my friend; I wanted to help. Besides, I was right when I said it wouldn't hit me as hard," she adds with a careless shrug as she takes up the glass again. "The symptoms I got were just the same as I get when I've got a cold. Mild fever, chills, coughs and sneezes. It was nothing compared with what you had."

I nod and pat her shoulder. I suppose I have to admit that she is right.

"All the same," Watson says quietly. "I must thank you for the level of care that you gave to Holmes in my absence. It must have been hard work!"

She shakes her head and stifles another sneeze. "Choo! No, Holmes is real easy to take care of when he's got a fever. He's more inclined to tell you what's wrong, for starters."

Watson raises his eyebrows in alarm. "Oh God! He certainly was seriously unwell!"

I cringe and pat his arm gently. "I am more than fully recovered old chap. Come now, calm yourself. Our concern is this young lady."

"Yes, quite," he touches my hand gently before giving Lestrade his full attention.

She twists and attempts to bat his hands away. "I'm really not that sick! Honest Watson."

"You are almost as bad as Holmes!" he informs her with annoyance. "Stay still and allow John and I to ensure that you are well enough to go home or I shall insist on keeping you here."

She moans but obeys for a few moments. However, she soon becomes restless again.

"Lestrade, please..." Watson shakes his head. "I have tended to small children that were rather more co-operative."

She groans and fidgets. "I can't help it! I have to... I mean..." she grimaces and crosses her legs at the ankles.

"Ah, I see," he helps her to her feet very carefully. "I am sorry."

Lestrade straightens up carefully and walks away with slow, tentative movements and very small strides.

"Do viruses affect everyone in this way?" John asks me.

"They can do," Watson responds quietly. "It is not exactly a symptom; it is more of a common consequence of a combination of symptoms."

Watson and John complete their examination very quickly upon the Yarder's return, though she is still voicing her objections.

"What d'you need to scan my lungs 'n' heart for?" she demands aggressively. "You didn't scan Holmes' lungs or heart when he was sick John."

Why does she always jump to conclusions? "John always monitors my vitals when I am unwell," I inform her. "He is only attempting to project the scan for Watson's benefit. Now, do behave yourself and stay still."

"You're enjoying this aren't you Holmes?" she snarls.

Oh but of course! There is nothing that I enjoy more than watching a young lady suffer. What the deuce is wrong with her? "Of course I am not! I simply wish that you would allow our friends to look after you. I seem to recall that you have told me to do the same."

I hear her give a quiet moan and mutter something about men, selective memories and being outnumbered.

"Be nice Lestrade."

She gives me a rather pathetic and watery glare that makes me want to laugh.

"Your heart beat is strong and steady and your chest is clear," John announces cheerfully.

"I could've told you that," she retorts, raising her eyebrow at him. "I'm too young to get sick with pneumonia. 'Sides, I take good care of myself. I'm healthy."

"That has nothing to do with it," I inform her. "You have been allowed to become dangerously chilled and your natural defenses have been weakened as a result."

She pouts at me and runs a hand over her brow.

"Are you feeling hot?" Watson asks gently. "I could get you a cooling cloth."

She shakes her head. "'S only a low grade fever. I can handle it."

"Lestrade is a very independent young lady," I explain to my companion. "She does not need or want our help or sympathy."

She grimaces. "It's not that. I just... I hate to trouble you. I mean it... Uh..." she screws her eyes shut and hastily covers her nose and mouth. "Choo! Choo!" she grimaces again and blows her nose while Watson blesses her. "It's only a cold. It's not like I really need any special care. Uh... Atchoo!"

"Bless you again," Watson pats her arm. "Your discomfort is obvious Lestrade. Of course you need care!"

She smiles wearily at him. "That's sweet Watson, but I'm OK. I've coped on my own with much worse."

Indeed she has, but I suspect that she was so sympathetic while I had influenza because she dislikes being forced to fend for herself alone.

Without a word I sit at her side and slip an arm around her. I half expect her to push me away, but instead she rests her head upon my shoulder. Yes, this is what she wants. I look up at Watson with a grimace.

He smiles and leans against the arm of the settee. "Would you like to stay here?" he asks our companion gently. "I do not mind giving up my bed."

She shakes her head. "No, I couldn't do that. You and Holmes 've got a lot of working out to do. 'Sides, I'd hate myself if you got sick."

"Illness is a part of life," Watson says gently. "Were that not so, there would be no need for doctors."

"You might not feel like being quite so nice about it once you are sick," the Yarder retorts quietly. "Our 22nd Century viruses are pretty nasty! Isn't that right Holmes?"

"Some of them certainly are," I admit. I am not sure whether I would agree that the illnesses have truly changed very much, however. Influenza has always been unpleasant and I have found that summer colds can be almost as bad. I do not believe that the common cold that I caught during the long months of last winter was any worse than those that I remember from my own era. "All the same, you really should stay here. It is terribly cold out."

She shakes her head. "There's no way I'm turfing either of you out of your bed. I can take care of myself Sherlock."

John crouches in front of Lestrade and rests a hand upon her arm. "If I take you home, will you rest? I would not like you to allow yourself to become worse, as Holmes often does."

I glare at him.

"Holmes..." Watson sighs tiredly.

Thank you John. I am not in the habit of causing myself harm! I have simply allowed my depression to weigh upon my health much more than I shall ever admit. It shall not happen again. Not now, while I am reunited with my companion of old.

Lestrade nods and twitches her nose. "'Course I'll rest up John."

"Very well then," he stands and helps her to her feet.

I hand her my Inverness. "You had better take this my dear," I say with a small smile. "You really should wear a coat."

"Thanks Holmes. I... I'll... I..." she quickly turns away and buries her face in the handkerchief that Watson gave to her. "Choo! Ahh... Atchoo!" she staggers slightly with the force of that second sneeze and the three of us quickly reach out to steady her. "I'm OK. Really. Atchoo!"

John shakes his head as she sways on her feet and lifts her into his arms. "You need a warm bed, a hot water bottle, a dish of soup and some medicine," he informs her.

I wrap my Inverness about her rather awkwardly. "If you want anything..."

"Thanks, but I'll be OK. I survived worse. Choo!"

"Bless you," Watson takes her hand gently. "Call us anyway Lestrade. Even if you only want some company. It is quite unpleasant to be alone while feeling unwell."

She gives us both a weary smile of gratitude and huddles up in my Inverness. "You can put me down now John," she informs our robotic friend.

He shakes his head firmly and turns his attention to Watson and I. "I shan't be long. I shall be back in good time to drive you to the waterfront."

We thank him and then go about getting ready for dinner while he tends to our friend.

I am quite excited. I have not dined out since my Irregulars insisted on showing me the new burger restaurant that had opened, after which I had decided not to bother. Tonight is going to be very different, for five star restaurants (even 22nd Century ones) do not serve fast food rubbish and I am not going to have to worry about setting a good example and forgoing the consumption of the odd glass of wine with my dinner. This is going to be like the old days! Just me and my Watson with all the time in the world. Yes, I am looking forward to this.


	6. Like the Old Days

The rain has ceased to fall entirely by the time that John returns. He announces that Lestrade fell into a deep slumber while he tended to her and that he has ensured that she has all that she needs. All the same, I am tempted to suggest that he stays with her until she is well again, but I am more than a little worried that he might think that I wish to be rid of him. I shall discuss my thoughts with Watson while we are alone.

We step out into the wet street and gaze up at the moon as it bathes the city in its cold, silvery light.

"That moon seems so small and distant," Watson remarks, his breath a cloud of vapour as he speaks. "Is it smaller than I remember, or is it simply the size of all the buildings causing it to appear that way?"

I pull my coat closer. "I have always thought that it seems smaller as well. I assumed that it was my imagination."

My friend turns his attention to the car with misgiving. "Can we not walk?" he asks me for the second time today.

I shiver and attempt to pull my coat closer still. "It is rather a cold night," I remark. "The car would be much more comfortable."

"Yes, it is rather bitter," he notes apologetically. "Perhaps it is better to take the car."

We sit together in the back and strap ourselves in. I take the middle seat so that I am able to offer my companion my support, for I perceive that he is scared.

"Holmes..." he whispers as we take to the air.

I hush him and rest my hand upon his arm. "Try closing your eyes Watson. I am here and I am not afraid. You do trust me, do you not?"

He closes his eyes and rests his head upon my shoulder. "With my life Holmes."

I take his hand. "We have faced much worse than this and walked away. You shall be all right my dear fellow."

He nods and draws a shaky breath.

"Would you like me to open a window?" I ask him, noting that he is already becoming pale.

He shakes his head. "I am all right," he assures me as he shifts in his seat. "John's driving is much smoother than Lestrade's. I am only nervous."

I can feel him trembling! I should think that 'nervous' is quite an understatement, but I say nothing. I do notice that he appears to be fidgeting in his seat rather a lot as the drive progresses, however. "Watson, if you are feeling sick I really think that you should stay still."

"I am not feeling sick," he replies with a grimace. "I want... I should have paid a visit before we left the house."

My poor Watson! I squeeze his hand gently. "You shall be all right," I assure him. "It is not much further now."

He nods. "I am sorry Holmes. I know that it is my nerves getting the better of me."

I offer what comfort I can and resist the temptation to tell John to increase our speed, for I know that he is driving slowly in an attempt to make Watson as comfortable as is possible. "We shall walk home," I tell my friend quietly. "I am not going to subject you to this again this evening."

He sniffs and again shifts in his seat. "I am sorry..."

"There is no need for you to be sorry! You cannot help it," I give his hand another squeeze and rest my head against his. "My dear Watson, everyone has something that frightens them. This is not your fault. I only wish that there was something that I could do."

"You are helping," he assures me. "I feel better with you beside me."

In that case... I launch myself into one of my favourite subjects, as I so often did while we were in a cab or train carriage while on a case. On this occasion, the chosen subject is music and I describe the many genres that have come to be in our absence. "Some of them are quite remarkably horrible," I remark with a grimace. "Take 'techno', for example. It is all synthesizers and noise! Mind you, that is one of the better ones. 'Rap' is dreadful! It is nothing more than angry music and shouting, often filled with as many adjectives as the 'artiste' has the breath to scream into his microphone."

John laughs. "My advise would be to leave the radio well alone," he says without turning his head.

"Amazingly, there is still some music that is worth listening to," I continue. "There are still classical orchestras and some artistes of today still use the traditional methods when they compose. Take the Corrs, for example..."

"The Corrs are a group from the last century," John informs me. "I am afraid that they could not be called 'modern', Holmes."

"Oh. That is a shame. I rather like their music," I smile. "It is a blend of traditional Irish violin music and rather more modern vocals, performed beautifully."

"I can see why you like it," Watson tells me. "I recall that Irish violin music was often heard in the Irish public houses in our day."

"That has not changed," I inform him. "But some also have live performances from the local area. Ah! Here we are. Thank you for the lift John."

"You are welcome," the robot replies with a friendly smile as Watson scrabbles at his seatbelt and climbs out of the car as if it were on fire. "When will you want me to come and pick you up?"

I glance at Watson, who has started pacing uncomfortably on the pavement. "I shall call you. Thank you John."

"You are welcome," he repeats. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Likewise. Take the opportunity to do something that I would usually disrupt," I advise him with a small smile of my own. He had might as well get some enjoyment out of this respite.

As the car takes to the air I join my companion and slip my arm through his. He is still shaking, though not as violently, and I cannot tell whether he is shivering due to the chill or if he is still trembling with fear.

"I am so sorry to have made such a fuss," he whispers, looking at the concrete pavement rather than meeting my gaze.

"It is not your fault," I repeat as I guide him inside and out of the biting air. I hope that he shall forget all about it once we are eating.

We have our coats, gloves and hats taken from us and are showed to our reserved table. Watson then excuses himself while I browse the menu. I am still trying to decide on what I want when my companion resumes his seat.

I address him with a smile and we begin to discuss our choices and relax in the opulent surroundings. There is a piano playing a soothing tune from a stage in the centre of the room, which is vast with high ceilings and big windows. The room is decorated in cream, red and gold. Red silk roses that look almost real stand in crystal vases as a centrepiece on each table, between red candles set in crystal and gold candelabras. Light is provided by the electric candlelight of matching chandeliers that hang high above us. From our table we have a fine view of Westminster and Big Ben from one of the high windows.

A waiter takes our order and then suggests a wine to accompany our meal.

"How are you feeling Watson?" I ask quietly when we are alone once more.

I see his face flush slightly. "I am all right Holmes. I am sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself."

How I wish that I had kept quiet! "My dear fellow, you did not make a spectacle of yourself. Had I not been sitting beside you, and if I did not know you so well, I would not have known that there was anything amiss. You did remarkably well."

He gives me a tentative smile and I return it kindly.

"We shall walk home," I promise him solemnly. "It is a pleasant enough night."

"Thank you Holmes, but it is still rather bitter."

"I am used to that," I assure him. "I am prepared to walk if you are."

"Thank you."

Our conversation turns to other things; mainly the differences between this era and the one that we are used to. We come to the conclusion that everything has changed.

"No, not quite everything," I say at last as the waiter pours us each a glass of wine. "Human nature remains the same. I still encounter men that believe that they have the right to prey upon the weak and helpless. I still find myself up against murderers, thieves and swindlers; they have not changed, although their methods have altered in some ways."

The waiter gives me a glance from the corner of his eye but I ignore it. I note that Watson appears to be somewhat annoyed, however.

"Did you see the way in which he looked at you?"

I hush him with a chuckle. "It is quite all right Watson."

"He would not have been so impertinent had he known who you are."

I grimace. "Tonight, I should like to be a mere face in the crowd. That is the main reason that I chose to wear my long black coat, rather than my Inverness, and my top hat. My usual clothing is too easily recognised."

Watson leans forward. "I only ever remember seeing you in your Inverness and deerstalker when we were in the country or if it was particularly cold Holmes."

I nod. "Lestrade seems to think that it is what I wear when I am working. It is what she had provided for me when she had me... restored."

"At least the choice of clothing that she provided me with was closer to the mark."

I shrug. "I believe that the 'movies' that she grew up watching always depicted you in the correct clothing."

"I was fortunate then."

I shall not tell him that he was also often depicted as being rather on the large side. I shall leave Lestrade to break that to him. Perhaps he only has himself to blame, for he always spent rather more time describing me than he did himself. All the same, Watson had been an Army doctor! How could anyone think that he could be unfit with that background?

"Are you all right old chap?" my companion asks. "You are rather quiet."

I blink and smile at him. "Yes. Perfectly."

Our first course arrives and we set to eagerly. Watson has ordered a prawn cocktail, which is arranged like a work of art. The dish is served in an oversize brandy glass, with the shelled prawns lying on a bed of salad leaves. My own choice is a baked brie with cranberries, which is served in a small earthenware pot with bread and crackers.

"How is it Watson?"

"Even better than it looks Holmes. And yours?"

"Delicious. I cannot remember the last time that I had some brie. It seems to be rather hard to come by."

He smiles at me and I note that all signs of his earlier fear and apprehension seem to have faded. Good! I do not like to see him so unlike himself.

The main course is also wonderful, though the serving is somewhat generous for me. Perhaps I was being rather ambitious when I opted for roast duck. I do not know quite how Watson manages to put away a whole side of grilled salmon (which is over a foot in length), but he clearly enjoys it.

"You are not finished surely?" he asks me, gesturing to my plate. "You still have half a bird there!"

I tenderly pat my full stomach and take another sip of wine. "I could not manage another bite."

He shakes his head. "That is because you have not been eating or sleeping enough of late. You have quite ruined your appetite."

John said the same last night, when we left the majority of our curried chicken. I nod and rub at my temple.

"For how long have you been depriving yourself of rest and sustenance Holmes?"

Why does everyone make it sound as if I have been doing so deliberately? I almost slam my hand down upon the table but I remind myself of where we are and stop myself. "I have been missing you since my revival, which was more than a year ago. I first became severely depressed last Christmas, though I did get out of it quite easily when I was presented with an interesting case. After that, I seemed to find it rather easy to become depressed again and each time was worse than the last."

"Yes, I remember your black moods," he responds quietly.

I give him a small smile and look away. "I am sure that they will not be as black now."

"Why is that?"

I give no reply.

"Have you truly missed me as much as all that?" my friend asks in disbelief.

I simply meet his gaze.

"Holmes?"

I clear my throat. "Words cannot express how I have missed you," I say carefully. "Knowing that you were... gone... Believing you to be completely lost to me..." I shake my head and lower my eyes to the tablecloth. "That made it so much worse. While we were both living, even if we were on separate continents, we were always within reach of one another. Even before the invention of the telephone."

When I meet his gaze once more I discover that he is somewhat teary-eyed. "I did not know that I meant so much to you."

I shrug. "I have always done my utmost to hide such sentiments. To broadcast them would have put you in terrible danger."

He smiles at me fondly.

"Does all this truly come as such a surprise?"

"I had come to the conclusion that you had no time or capacity for love," he informs me. "Though you have proved me wrong on more than one occasion."

Three separate occasions come instantly to mind; one of which being the day of his return. The second is the day of his death and the third is still as fresh and clear in my mind as the others and still, even now, can turn me sick and cold at the memory. It was during a dangerous case together, 'The Three Garridebs', I believe Watson named it, when he was shot. I thought that I had lost my Watson for a horrible moment and even with his assurance that he was fine, I had to rip up his trouser leg to see the evidence for myself.

"Holmes? Holmes, are you all right old chap?"

I nod and pinch the bridge of my nose. "It has been a long day."

"Yes. Yes, it has. Do you wish to go home?"

I smile at him and shake my head. "I am all right."

"If you are quite sure," he is watching me carefully now. "Then I think I am ready for dessert, if you have no objections," he takes up the appropriate menu. "Would you like anything? I see that there is lemon meringue; that is nice and light. You should be able to manage that."

I might consider it. "What will you have?"

"I am tempted to try one of the cakes. Perhaps some Victoria sandwich; that should be light and fluffy."

Where does he find the room? "Hum, I think I shall have the lemon meringue. And a cup of coffee."

"Have you seen the list of coffees that they have here?" he asks. "I do not know what they all are!"

I give it a glance over. "Hum. We want percolated coffee and that is what I shall ask for. I have never known such nonsense! Coffee is coffee."

The waiter addresses me with another strange look when I ask for the coffee. Is there no longer such a thing as percolated coffee in this wretched era?

I glare at him. "Coffee. In a pot. For two. Is that difficult?"

Watson touches my arm and turns to the waiter. "Do you not percolate the coffee?"

"Yes, of course," he replies. "But we use a machine to do it. It makes light, fluffy hot chocolate as well."

I drum my fingers upon the table irritably. "All we want are two cups of normal coffee, if you do not provide a coffee pot."

"With cream?" he asks.

I scan the coffee list again. "Oh, make mine an Irish," I request, noting that it is a black coffee served with a nip of whisky and cream. I think I shall be glad of that whisky when we step out into the cold night air.

"And I shall have the same," Watson adds, trusting my judgement.

I run a hand over my face when we are finally alone. "I have never known such nonsense! When a fellow asks for a cup of coffee, surely it should be obvious that he wants the sort of coffee that he would drink at home!"

My companion shrugs his shoulders. "I shall make a pot of coffee when we return to Baker Street, if you would like."

"Thank you Watson," I smile at him gratefully.

The lemon meringue proves to be an excellent choice. My friend clearly knows me as well as I know him. It amuses me to think that, even after all this time, we could easily order a meal for one another.

I retrieve my credit card on the way out, before we are helped into our coats. We take our hats and gloves and step out into the biting air. The moon is still shining and, in spite of the bright electric lights, the sky is also dotted with stars. This means that there is to be a frost; we shall have to tread carefully. The pavement is already becoming icy underfoot.

"Brr!" Watson turns up his collar and hunches his shoulders. "Are you quite sure about this? I would not object to being driven home if you would prefer."

I shake my head and take his arm. "You know as well as I do that I like to take an after dinner stroll." I also doubt that a drive would do him very much good, for he has had rather a lot to eat.

We walk home in the moonlight chatting away happily. Our breath encircles our faces, which soon become flushed with the stinging chill.

"We should have wore our cravats," my companion remarks suddenly as he adjusts his collar.

Yes, my neck and shoulders are rather cold as well. I sniff and wipe at my dripping nose with my handkerchief. "We are almost home now. Baker Street is only two streets away."

He sniffs and raises his handkerchief to his face in turn. "Oh good. Husshch!"

I stiffen slightly at the sound of that sneeze. "Are you all right?"

He nods and blows his nose. "Excuse me. Yes Holmes, I am fine."

I pat his arm and increase our speed as much as I dare, suddenly wishing that I had insisted upon staying indoors beside the warm fire.

The living room is dark when we reach 221B Baker Street. This means that John has clearly retired to the kitchen to recharge. I pull my keys from my pocket as we approach the front door, only to have it open abruptly before me.

"Why did you not call me?" the robot demands as he permits us to enter the hall. "You are not exactly appropriately dressed for a walk home on a chill October evening."

Watson hands him his coat. "It was my fault John. Holmes did not want me to be subjected to another drive when I had just had dinner."

He sighs and nods his understanding. "Yes, I could see how nervous you were in the car. I had hoped that you would have been better while I was driving so slowly."

He blushes and averts his gaze. "Well, it did not make me nauseous, so I suppose that you were right. I shall just have to get used to it."

I pat his shoulder. "And so you shall," I assure him. "We shall simply have to introduce you to it gently."

"I suppose so..." my companion sniffs and turns away, covering his face with his handkerchief. "Huh-uhshhch!"

"Bless you Doctor Watson," John is immediately all concern. He takes our outer garments from us and orders us to go up to the living room, where it is warmer.

"I shall make you a hot drink. What would you like? Chocolate?"

I am tempted to ask for another coffee, but John's drinking chocolate is perfectly divine. I tell Watson as much and we both agree that we should like a cup. I then escort my companion up to our sitting room and wrap a blanket about him as he takes to his chair beside the dying embers in the hearth.

By the time John joins us, I have a cheerful blaze lit and Watson and I are both warm and comfortable.

"Ah good; you are both well wrapped up," he remarks. "I hope that you are feeling warmer."

"Yes thank you," Watson replies with a smile. "I am warm as toast."

John hands us our steaming cups and we relax in the warming glow of the firelight.

"Is there anything else that you shall need or want before I retire for the night? A hot water bottle? Extra blankets?"

I assure him that we are quite able to fend for ourselves, for I perceive that his movements are becoming sluggish. He is tired! "Have a good night John. It would be a crime to keep you from your rest."

"Thank you, I shall. Sleep well Holmes, Doctor Watson."

I tell Watson to use the bathroom first and then I tend to his room in his absence. I warm his bed for him, provide him with extra blankets and light a fire in his grate. I do not want him catching a cold due to my carelessness and I am determined to do all that I can for him. I then take our cups down to the kitchen and fetch him up a pitcher of water.

I have gathered up my night clothes and am waiting on the settee when Watson leaves the bathroom.

"Good night old chap," he says as we pass one another.

"Good rest my dear fellow," I return with a smile. I note that he does look much better now that he has warmed up, but I know that I shall not be able to relax until tomorrow. I shall sleep on the settee tonight, for I shall be able to hear him better from there.


	7. New Scotland Yard

"Holmes?"

My eyelids flicker open at the sound of John's voice. He is in the short corridor that connects my bedroom and the bathroom with the living room. What is amiss? Is Watson all right?

"Holmes?" he calls again in little more than an urgent whisper as he knocks at my bedroom door. "Are you awake old boy?"

I yawn loudly and sit up. "What is it John?"

He whirls around to stare at me. "There you are! Have you been there all night?"

"I find the settee rather more comfortable than my bed," I respond with a flick of my hand. "You do know that."

"All the same, your bed would have been considerably warmer..."

I shrug dismissively. "I am sure that you did not wake me to tell me that," I retort. "Come now John. What is all the fuss about?"

"Chief Inspector Grayson wishes to see you and Doctor Watson 'ASAP immediately'," he informs me. "I suggest that you wash and dress while I wake the doctor and make you both breakfast. What would you like? Eggs and bacon?"

Eggs and bacon would be just the ticket and I tell him as much. After eating well last night, I have more of an appetite this morning. "But I shall wake Watson. He can become somewhat disgruntled when his sleep is disturbed; especially if he is under the weather."

"Very well then Holmes. If you are quite sure."

I am. I know my Watson. I fasten my dressing gown about me and hurry up to my companion's room.

My friend is curled up on his side, snoring quietly, in much the way that he was when I awoke beside him yesterday. I notice that he has had a small amount of the water that I provided for him, but not a particularly abnormal quantity. I hope that this means that he is all right. I approach him quietly, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, and rest a tentative hand upon his shoulder.

He groans. "What is it?"

I remove my hand. "John woke me because Chief Inspector Grayson wishes to see us as soon as we can manage," I inform him apologetically. "How are you this morning? Well enough to meet the New Scotland Yarders, do you think?"

He sits up and rubs at his eyes. "I feel much better. I believe I needed a good meal and some fresh air."

Splendid! I have been terribly worried about my Watson. "John is cooking us some eggs and bacon," I inform him cheerfully.

"Are we going to be driving to New Scotland Yard?" he asks, becoming a few shades paler. "I am not sure that greasy food is a good idea if we are."

Ah. "I shall ask John to make you some toast," I tell him before running back down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

John looks up from his cooking as I join him. "How is Doctor Watson this morning?" he enquires. "I did not like the sound of that sneeze last night in the slightest."

"He says that he is feeling better today," I reply. "He certainly does seem it."

The compudroid smiles cheerfully. "Then it was just those horrible vaccines that caused him to feel so ill and tired. I am glad."

I nod. 'A necessary evil', John called the dreadful things when they were forced upon me. Hum! I suspect that truer words were never spoken.

"What was it that you wanted Holmes?"

Ah yes. "Watson would prefer a light breakfast of toast or something if we are to take the car."

"Oh! Of course," he looks thoughtful. "Does he like marmalade? It might help to settle his stomach. Ginger is a natural antiemetic as well; it should stop him from feeling sick."

Perhaps I was rather hard on him the other day; his research into home remedies has become almost as extensive as his knowledge of modern medicine and I would say that it is much more useful. "Watson will probably give both a try whether he would usually like ginger or marmalade or not. He is not as..."

"Fussy as you?" the compudroid suggests, raising an eyebrow at me.

I am not fussy. I simply do not eat anything that I dislike. I have never understood how Watson can eat a dish that he himself will admit to finding disgusting. I suppose that it is due to the time that he spent in the Army. Poor devil!

John shakes his head. "You are fussy, you know. When a man refuses to drink water because it is 'boring', he is being utterly ridiculous."

"I eat your creations," I retort with a small smile.

"Yes you do; with surprisingly few complaints. Even Mrs. Hudson did not fare so well."

Ah yes, our dear housekeeper. I must have quite driven her to distraction on occasion and yet she always stood by me. Watson as well, naturally, but he was the much less bothersome of the two of us. When there was a mess waiting for her in a once tidy room or we made too much noise when the servants had retired to their beds, it was always I that received the reproachful glare, wagging finger or, when she was particularly aggrieved, the threat of being struck with her feather duster or broom.

Watson is already washed and dressed when we sit down to breakfast. He tries the mixture of marmalade and ground ginger that John has prepared for him willingly while I help myself to the bacon and eggs.

"You are hungry!" my companion of old notes with a smile.

I return his smile cheerfully. "I am famished! I believe that I also needed some fresh air."

John frowns at us. "I would appreciate it if you would ensure that you are better prepared for the weather the next time that you decide to take a walk. You both could have caught your death!"

"Yes, you said as much last night," I respond with irritation as I drum my fingers upon the table. "Please do not go on, there's a good chap."

His frown deepens but he says nothing. Instead, he clears away the used plates rather noisily.

The drive to New Scotland Yard is much better than last night's car journey. Watson is still terribly nervous, but he does not seem to be in any discomfort. I talk to him constantly to keep him occupied and that does seem to help.

"We have arrived," John announces as he takes us down. "Should I wait with the car Holmes?"

What a strange question! "Of course not! Why would you even ask such a thing?"

His shoulders sag. "Grayson did not request my presence; he only said that he wished to see you and Doctor Watson."

"John," I lean forward to rest a hand upon his shoulder. "You know what Grayson is like. He is often downright rude to me as well; do not take it to heart. Now, whether he wishes to see you or not, you are a valuable part of the team and I should like you to accompany us. If you would be so kind."

"All right Holmes," he chirps as he parks the car. "Thank you."

Grayson and I are going to have words. John is not Scotland Yard's answering machine and I will not have him treated as such. I clench my fists as we enter the building.

"There you are!" a familiar female voice calls as we approach the chief inspector's office.

"Lestrade!" John hurries to her ahead of us and sits beside her on one of the flimsy-looking chairs outside of the office. "I thought that you would be at home today."

She shrugs and sniffs. "Grayson wants to see us. Besides, I feel better. All I needed was a good night's sleep."

"Good!" Watson says emphatically as he sits on the other side of her and gestures for me to take the seat at his side in turn. "I was rather worried about you yesterday."

"I did tell you I was OK," she retorts with a smirk. "But thanks. It's nice to know I've got friends looking out for me. Oh yeah! I've got your Inverness in my office Holmes. Thanks for loaning it to me."

I assure her that she is most welcome. "You really should keep a coat with you."

She nods and sniffs again. "I've got one with me today. I had to walk in, so I made sure that I dressed warmer."

"Hum, very wise."

She stands and knocks on Grayson's door.

"Well? Come in!" the chief inspector's voice growls.

Our 'superior' enters and we file in behind her. There are three chairs waiting for us in front of the desk. John clearly was not expected to join us. Angered, I decide to sit upon the desk and gesture for the compudroid to take my seat. Lestrade sits on the far side of the robot and crosses her legs while Watson takes to the chair nearest to the door and clasps his hands together in his lap.

Grayson gives me an icy glare, which I choose to ignore. I am not easily bullied and I care not a jot for his approach. He does not impress me.

"Before we get down to business Lestrade, I want to know what happened to you yesterday..."

I hear her shift slightly in her seat. "Atchoo-choo!"

"Don't interrupt," he snaps. "You were supposed to change your uniform and return to the Yard."

I narrow my eyes at him. Now my temper has truly been roused! "Are you blind?" I demand of him. "Can you not see that she is unwell?" I go on to describe the condition that she was in when she arrived at Baker Street yesterday and what had transpired as a result.

"That's no excuse!" the chief inspector bellows. "Lestrade should've got a lift home..."

I slam my hand down upon the desk and stand up, scattering documents as I do so. "The chap that you sent to retrieve her car was an absolute cad! He refused to give her a ride home and as a result she was forced to walk with no umbrella or coat. As Baker Street was nearer, she came to us; very wisely, I might add."

Grayson points a finger at me aggressively. "Just stay still and keep quiet."

I have not finished and I tell him as much as I lean forward and slam both my hands upon his desk forcefully. "A fully fledged Scotland Yard inspector she may be, but Lestrade is still a young lady. In my day, young ladies would not have been treated in so appalling a manner and I shall not stand for it."

"Holmes has already described her condition," John adds in a much calmer manner, ignoring the quiet protests of the Yarder beside him. "She was quite obviously hypothermic. Had she attempted to walk the distance to her apartment, Lestrade would quite likely have ended up in the hospital."

"Atchoo!" I hear her moan tiredly. "Look, I'm OK. Besides, Grayson's right; I should've called in and told him I was sick."

Grayson nods and turns another glare upon me. I care not at all.

"I suggest that you find out who it was that was supposed to retrieve Lestrade's car," I tell him icily. "Had she not been abandoned, she would most likely not have fallen ill and then she would not have been forced to let you down yesterday. Surely it is obvious that she is not to blame?"

"Holmes..." the Yarder groans behind me.

The chief inspector ignores me and turns to his subordinate. "We'll discuss this later," he growls at her.

Grr! How I should like to go a few rounds with him! I would dearly love an opportunity to knock some sense into him.

He is completely ignoring me now. "You did assure me that you could control the dead detective," he reminds her.

"Now just a minute!" Watson protests loudly.

I turn to motion to my Boswell to keep quiet, but John already has a calming hand upon his shoulder.

Grayson huffs with irritation. "You can't even control the one that you assured me wasn't as mental..."

Excuse me?

Before I can react I see Watson's eyes blaze dangerously. Grayson should have a care; he has just successfully angered both myself and my chronicler.

"Usually, I don't have to control 'em," she retorts. I hear her stand and stalk to the desk beside me. "If you're gonna insist on yelling at me in front of 'em, you should expect them to want to have their say."

Bravo Lestrade!

"Now, what did you call us in for?" she continues, clearly doing her utmost to keep her tone calm and polite.

Grayson frowns at her. "I wanted to meet your new team member. You did say that he'd help to keep him," he points a finger in my direction, "in line."

I do not have to look at him to know that Watson will have stiffened at this. I am glad that John is sitting beside him.

"I explained my reasons and you agreed with 'em," the Yarder reminds him. "I'm prepared to take responsibility for Holmes and Doctor Watson and I know they'll get results. That should be good enough for you... sir."

He knows only too well that we get the best results and I for one know that it annoys him terribly that a young woman (the youngest inspector at the Yard, in fact), a compudroid and a 'dead detective' can get better results than his rather more conventional teams.

I have always said that the main problem with most police officials is that they lack imagination. They see all that I see, but they do not have the ability to put it together and form a theory upon which to act. Lestrade has imagination, however; not to mention the tenacity of her ancestor. It is little wonder that we work together so well.

Grayson grumbles and dismisses us at last. I am incredibly displeased by his attitude, for I had hoped that we had been called in due to a case.

"Come on, I'll buy you guys a drink," Lestrade announces as we leave the office. "What d'you want?"

"As a gentleman, I think that it is I that should buy the drinks," I volunteer. I do not feel comfortable with her spending money on me in the slightest.

"That's sweet Holmes, but I'm an independant 22nd Century girl. Besides, you paid last time. What d'you want?"

I know better than to ask for a hot beverage and the canned drinks are much too sweet and artificial for my taste. I wave a dismissive hand. "Nothing for me, thank you."

"Are you sure?" she asks as we turn in the direction of the canteen. "It was hot in Grayson's office."

Not that hot, but I suppose Lestrade is under the weather. It probably did feel rather hot to her and colds do have a tendency to cause the sufferer to become thirsty frequently.

"What is available?" Watson asks.

I am tempted to tell him not to have anything, but the young lady is already listing the drinks on offer, including 'spring water'. I feel it is rather a cheek to sell bottled water that tastes no different to the water that comes out of the tap, but some poor fool must buy it or it would not remain on sale.

"I think I shall have a cup of tea," my companion decides.

I grimace. I wonder if even my Boswell can stomach New Scotland Yard's tea.

The Yarder nods and goes to the counter with John. Moments later, the robot returns to our table.

"Would you like a cream soda, ginger beer or elderflower cordial?" he asks me. "Lestrade petitioned for the cafeteria to add some rather more... traditional beverages to their stock for you."

How many of Lestrade's colleagues must have signed that petition for me? They must all want me to feel more at home here. I am rather touched.

"I think I should like a ginger beer actually," Watson decides. "Seeing as the ginger that I had at breakfast seemed to work."

"And I should like an elderflower cordial," I announce. I did not know that such a thing could still be purchased! I shall have to thank Lestrade.

"What d'you have planned for today?" the Yarder asks when she returns to the table with our robotic friend.

I shrug. "I have no plans."

"Sounds good," she slips two pills into her mouth and washes them down with a sip of cream soda, straight from the bottle. "No cases then?"

I shake my head as I accept my bottled drink and a glass. "You refused to call me in after the last one and John has been turning any would-be clients away at the door."

"You were unwell Holmes," he protests.

I notice that Watson looks concerned. Here we go! I shake my head again. "I was weary."

"Ailing," he argues. "Had Doctor Watson not returned, you would still be wasting away in the sitting room. You could not work without sleep and sustenance."

"Indeed not," Watson agrees.

I am outnumbered. I grumble and pour some of my cordial into the glass. "Well, in any case, we have no work to do. If you have nothing for us to consult on Lestrade, I suppose I shall show Watson the sights of New London. He needs to be well informed."

My companion gives me a cheerful smile and sips at his glass of ginger beer. "I shall be glad to accompany you. Where to first?"

"The Zoo?" Lestrade suggests.

I frown at her. "It is not a daytrip my dear."

"Who said it was?" she asks with a shrug. "The Zoo should give Watson a pretty good idea of what's changed."

There is that.

"Am I invited to join you on this venture?" John asks. He sounds a little hurt. Did our going out last night without him cause him to feel unwanted?

Watson touches his hand gently. "Of course you are welcome to join us old chap!"

The robot smiles at him gratefully.

Lestrade sniffs. "Well, I guess I better get back to work..."

"I think that you should go home," John argues with a shake of his head as she stands slowly. "You are not well."

"It's a cold," she protests in a whining tone that is far from characteristic of her. "I'll be over it in a couple o' days."

I laugh. "I believe that you would argue that that is entirely beside the point."

She frowns at me. "I would if it was you or Watson that was sick. At least at the moment. You don't have much resistance to our bugs yet, apart from the ones we gave you vaccines for. It's different."

I rub at my temple. "All the same, you would recover much faster at home. Go back and speak with Grayson; I am sure that he would prefer for you to be as robust as ever as soon as possible."

"Holmes is right," Watson agrees. "All you are going to do by working in your condition is run the risk of setting yourself back and passing your cold on. You need rest."

She sniffs and I realise that she is becoming tearful. I approach her side to rest a hand at the small of her back. "We only want you to make a speedy recovery my dear Lestrade."

She nods and makes an effort to bring herself under control before the tears begin, but I can feel her shaking.

"What is it?" I ask gently. "Surely you are not that desperate to stay here?"

"I don't know," she confesses. "I just get like this sometimes."

Yes, she did mention as much before. I put my arm about her and turn to John and Watson. "I do not think that Lestrade should be left alone, under the circumstances."

"I agree Holmes," Watson replies. "But we can hardly drag her along with us."

John stands and rests his hand upon the Yarder's shoulder. "I shall take the inspector home and stay with her until she is well again."

"Thanks John, but I'm really not the best company when I'm sick..."

I rub at her back gently. "You cannot possibly be any worse than I am," I retort. "I am sure that John will be able to manage."

She rests her head at my shoulder and I jump slightly. She is hot enough for me to feel the warmth through my clothing instantly. "You have a fever."

"Not a high one," she shrugs. "Anyway, I took something for it."

Watson frowns at her. "If you are fevered, you are most likely becoming overly tired; you really should go home and sleep."

"Fatigue would most assuredly explain your sudden tearfulness," I add quietly. "We all become the more emotional when we are weary; I for one become somewhat easy to anger, as a rule."

She nods and sniffs quietly. "I only ever get like this when I'm sick. I'm not one o' those women that cry all the time."

I smile at her and pull her closer to me. "I am well aware of that. I have known you for a year and this is the first occasion that I have seen you come close to tears. But surely this is an indication in itself that you should go home?"

She pulls away and buries her nose in the crook of her arm. "Atchoo! Choo!"

I hear her groan under her breath and wonder just how unwell she is feeling. "Are you all right?"

She nods and accepts a handkerchief from my friend of old. "I'm fine. Thanks Watson; my uniform doesn't have anywhere to keep tissues and stuff. I have to keep going off to the ladies' room."

"I would imagine that that is deucedly inconvenient," I remark sympathetically as she blows her nose.

"Yeah. It's hard enough to concentrate without having to keep leaving my office."

"Then go home," Watson retorts. "Do as Holmes and John have suggested and talk to Grayson. I am sure that he would rather not have you here passing this cold around."

I rub her back again very gently. "John will keep you company and Watson and I shall call in to see you later."

"Thanks, but I really don't want you to..."

"If you are concerned about our contracting the illness, stop it at once," I tell her sharply. "We have both already come into contact with the microbe, so there is no point in advising us to keep our distance now; it is up to Providence whether or not we succumb."

Watson nods in agreement.

"Zed! I knew I shouldn't 've gone to Baker Street yesterday."

"Desist," I warn her for the second time. "I for one am glad that you came to us. As John has already stated, your condition was becoming dangerous! For just how long were you out in the elements without a coat?"

She quickly turns away and covers her nose and mouth with the loaned handkerchief. "Atchoo-choo! Choo!" she turns back slowly. "I lost track o' time. I hit the ground pretty hard and, when I got out, I realised my cruiser was leaking fuel. I kept any passers by back... Choo! 'Scuse me. I kept anyone who got too close back and reported the incident, but I had to wait to get picked up."

I nod sympathetically as our friends bless her. "You really should have reported the chap that was supposed to pick you up, you know."

"I don't like to report my colleagues Holmes. Guess that was why I didn't think to tell Grayson what happened; I don't like snitching."

"I hardly think it fair that you incurred his wrath simply because you were unwell and not thinking clearly yesterday," Watson remarks.

John shakes his head. "That seems to be Grayson's way. He is rather hard on our Lestrade."

At these words I hear the young lady give a strangled sob. I take it that Grayson has managed to upset her. I rub her back and turn to Watson and John in a silent plea for help, for I do not know what I should do.

"It is all right," Watson says as he steps forward, though I know not whether he is addressing me or the inspector. He takes her hand gently, caring not a jot about the handkerchief within her grasp, and motions for me to take her other.

Yes, this I can manage. I am not as uncomfortable when it comes to holding hands.

"We could accompany you when you speak with Grayson, if you like..."

She shakes her head and sniffs. "Thanks Watson, but I think it'd be better for me if I talk to him alone."

"Then we shall wait outside for you," I decide firmly. "I should think that you should be glad of some moral support."

John gently pats her shoulder. "I shall go with you," he informs Lestrade gently. "I do not think that he would object to my presence as much as he would that of Holmes or Doctor Watson. I am, after all, still your compudroid."

I smile at him. "Yes, that is true. Grayson still seems to think that that is all that you are. I believe that he is quite unable to see past the end of his nose."

"Well, I guess I better go find Grayson. Thanks Holmes, thanks Watson..."

John slips his arm about her as Watson and I release her and she leans against him in the same weary manner that she had been with me. Poor Lestrade! She must be feeling considerably worse than she is implying, for she usually would insist that she does not need such support.

Watson hands Lestrade her bottled drink and we finish what was left in our glasses before collecting our own half-finished bottles and following our colleagues back to Grayson's office. As they enter the room, the two of us each take a seat.

"What've you been up to then, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" a Scottish-accented voice asks in a half-humorous tone. "You look like a naughty child who's been sent to see the headmaster!"

I meet the mischievous smile of one of Lestrade's colleagues. "Nothing of the sort Inspector McGregor," I assure him. "Doctor Watson and I are simply waiting to take Lestrade home. She is ill."

He raises his eyebrows at the man sitting quietly beside me. "This is Doctor Watson?"

My friend stands and shakes him firmly by the hand. "I am indeed."

The Yarder looks him up and down. "You'll excuse me for saying you aren't a bit like I expected, won't you? I mean, you look nothing like that compudroid."

I rub at my temple with my index finger. "I am sure that I do not have to explain why I did not want John the compudroid to resemble Watson."

He considers it for a moment and then smirks. "Seems Sherlock Holmes' heart beats just the same as any other after all," he remarks.

Go away for God's sake!

"We are all human," Watson reminds the Yarder.

"Yes indeed," McGregor looks him up and down yet again and shakes his head. "Lestrade managed to bring you back then. I would have thought it was impossible!"

"Then she told you of her plans?" This comes as a surprise to me, for I did not know that the two Yarders were very close.

He shakes his head. "No, it's just obviously her doing. After all, she brought you back."

I nod and turn my attention to Grayson's office at the sound of a rather violent sneeze from within. Truly Lestrade is becoming fatigued; her inability to stifle her sneezes are a strong indication.

"Are you escorting Lestrade home just because she's got a cold?" her irksome colleague demands with a laugh and shake of his red head. "Why, it's nothing to fret over!"

I sorely wish that he would go away and mind his own business.

"She is exhausted and has a fever," Watson informs him. "It would do her no good whatsoever to work while she is in her current condition; under the circumstances, I hardly think that it matters what illness has caused her weariness or heightened temperature."

Bravo Watson! "Indeed not," I agree.

The Yarder shrugs his shoulders. "Well, I can't stand about here all day; some of us have work to do. We can't all afford to go home whenever we feel like it, can we?"

What nice, sympathetic colleagues we have here at the Yard! "Yes, yes, run along," I snap with a dismissive gesture. "I am sure you must be terribly busy and have a great deal of important work to be done. Good day, McGregor."

Watson frowns at the man's back as he walks away. "Does nobody here like Lestrade?"

I groan and rub at my temple. "Surely you recall the petty jealousies and rivalries between the Yarders of our day?"

He grimaces. "Only too well."

"Well then, I am sure that you can imagine the situation when I say that some men of the 22nd Century still believe that women are unfit for police work. Add to the equation the matter of Lestrade being the youngest inspector of the Yard and her current success rate (which was impressive before she even considered seeking my help, I assure you) and I believe that it becomes quite clear."

Watson shakes his head in disgust but says nothing.

"She has us," I remind him with a small smile.

"Indeed," he shakes his head again. "I think I begin to understand. She is somewhat lonely and you..." he frowns at me and presses his finger to his lips as he regards me thoughtfully. "You can relate to that?"

I give a very slight nod and turn away. "If you only knew how frightfully alone I have felt in your absence, you would not have to ask. You are the only human being that I have ever considered bearing my very soul to Watson."

He gives an almost inaudible gasp and rests his hand upon my arm.

I turn back with a small smile. "I am all right."

"Of course," he pats my arm before withdrawing his hand.

I lean back until my head is resting against the wall and tilt my hat to cover my eyes.

"Are you weary?"

"Bored," I reply with a stifled yawn. "You know how I abhor waiting."

Eventually, Lestrade emerges with John. I can see in her face how terribly done up she is and it would appear that her symptoms are all the worse as a result.

"I've got permission t' go home," she informs us.

"Then do so at once," Watson advises her. "You are becoming exhausted."

I tell John to take the car. Watson and I shall take a cab; it is not as if there are many places in which to park in central New London anyway.

"Have you enough credits?" he enquires.

I nod and flash a fleeting smile. Yes, I have ample money, despite my being in convalescence for some time, for I had barely gone anywhere or done anything that would incur expenses. I assure him that we have all that we need, request that he takes my Inverness back to Lestrade's apartment, and remind our ill friend that we shall see her later.

I watch as my companion embraces her. "Do as John tells you," he advises. "I want to see an improvement in your condition when we visit you."

"I'll try to be a better patient than Holmes," I hear her promise with a quiet sniff.

"I should hope so!" he retorts, laughing.

I grimace with annoyance and turn my back on them.

We finally part company and I call for a cab. We wait in the reception area for, despite the sun shining brightly outside, it is freezing cold and I have no desire to expose us both to the elements. I begin to meticulously plan our tour. I want my companion to understand exactly how much our environment has changed, as well as to ensure that he knows his way around New London quite well enough without me. After all, he is bound to have to venture out alone at some point. Watson is not a child; I can hardly expect him to only leave the house with myself, John or Lestrade acting as escort. I shall have to see that he is well informed in regard to the dangers (particularly Moriarty).

Eventually the cab arrives. We climb into the back and I offer my companion my hand, for I have not had to use this mode of transport before and know not what it is going to entail. He grasps my hand tightly as we are hurtled into the cloudless sky in great haste.


	8. The Sights of New London

Within minutes Watson has paled dramatically. I do not blame him in the slightest; the cab driver is almost as bad as Beth Lestrade! The cab does a barrel roll with neither cause nor warning and I hear my companion give a far from characteristic whimper beside me. No, the driver is on a par with Lestrade, for she is rather fond of manoeuvres such as these as well; though she does not tend to play such tricks as often as she did when I was new to flying cars. I suspect that the fun has gone out of it somewhat now that I tend not to gasp and clutch at my seat involuntarily when she does so.

I feel Watson shift in his seat beside me and cast him a questioning glance.

I receive a grimace in response and he again squeezes my hand. "The ginger beer is at least helping the nausea..."

I pat his hand gently. "Driver, I should be most grateful if you would reduce your speed."

"You're paying," is his response as the cab lessens its speed.

I nod and give my companion's hand a reassuring squeeze in response to his. "I am indeed paying," I reply to the driver with a swift smile, "and you can be sure of a handsome tip if you provide us with a comfortable ride."

I feel my friend fidget again. Without a thought I slip an arm about him and quietly assure him that everything is all right.

He nods and apologises quietly.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Calm yourself my dear fellow," I rub a small circle at his back.

He tenses with a gasp. "Holmes, I assure you that neither of us would like for me to relax at the moment," he whispers urgently.

Ah. I apologise and cease my hand's movements at once. "Should we make a detour?" I do not wish to watch my companion suffer any more than he would want me to be a witness. I try to work out where the nearest public conveniences are located.

I feel him tense again but he shakes his head. "I am all right. It is simply uncomfortable."

I nod and squeeze his hand again gently, doing my utmost to convey my sympathy. I wish that I could help.

"You are helping," he assures me quietly, reading my expression. "Just knowing that you are beside me is a comfort to me."

I address him with a fleeting smile. How perceptive he is!

"I am so sorry that you have to see me like this..." he murmurs so quietly that his words are difficult to discern over the sound of the engine.

"Nonsense my dear Watson," I respond just as softly. "This is not your fault." I then inform him that it would be wise to change the subject. Dwelling on his current need is most assuredly making the discomfort all the worse.

He moans beneath his breath and again apologises.

"Are you sure that you are quite all right?" I ask of him. This is not like my Boswell and I am becoming increasingly concerned.

He nods and fidgets yet again.

After the longest fifteen minutes that I have ever endured, we are finally set down at New London Zoo. I pay the driver in the manner that I promised and help my companion to step out onto the pavement.

"Thank you Holmes."

"Not at all Watson," I perceive that he is shaking and slip my arm about him. "Are you cold?"

"A little, but that is not why I am trembling. When the cab flipped upside down..." he shudders violently and slams his eyes shut.

I squeeze his shoulder. "We are both safe. Come now Watson."

I know that anyone that might overhear would most likely believe my reaction to be far from kind or sympathetic, but my Boswell knows me better than that. I also know that Watson reacts better when a fellow is firm, as if that provides him with a good, sound foundation upon which to steady his nerves.

The Zoo turns out to be rather more interesting than I expected, but it is also teeming with noisy children. There are three different schools here, as is easily discerned by the differing uniforms. No, four; there is another that does not believe in uniforms.

I watch as my companion, now comfortable once more, slowly relaxes and becomes considerably more like himself. He appears to be enjoying the display regarding the dinosaurs and evolution.

"Have you been here before?" my friend enquires as we head for the few outdoor enclosures that belong to living animals, as opposed to automations and droids.

"Once. During a case," I reply. "Lestrade's method of bringing me up to speed was not as... friendly as this. I doubt that you would have appreciated my adopting it."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "What the devil did she do to you?"

"Oh, she did not harm me!" I assure him, containing my amusement with some difficulty. Good old Watson! He is still as protective as ever! "No, no. When I say that her methods were unfriendly I simply mean that she did not even talk to me. She simply gave me a device that would provide me with all the data I could possibly need and left me alone with it."

"I see what you mean."

I smile at him. "Naturally, I was not hurt in the slightest. I believe that you would have been, however; especially if I were to have treated you in such a manner. In any case, Lestrade was busy and I am not."

He nods and slips his hands into his pockets. "I am cold Holmes. Could we step inside the reptile house? That should be quite warm."

I dislike reptiles. I am not frightened of them, of course, and I know that they are kept behind glass in any case. I am simply uncomfortable when a snake is in my vicinity; which has not been improved in the slightest during some of my cases.

"Holmes?" his hand rests upon my shoulder and I hear him give a quiet sniff. "Are you coming? You must surely be feeling the chill yourself. The reptile house should be warm, as they need to be kept within certain margins of temperature."

He is right of course. I follow my companion without a word. My throat is becoming a bit dry from the cold, I must admit.

Upon entering the building that houses the reptiles, we are met by a sight that causes me to wish to return to braving the biting cold. There is a group of children from the school that has no designated uniform, along with a teacher, standing in a semicircle at the centre of the building. In front of them, a uniformed man is removing a boa constricter from what would appear to be a storage box of clear perspex.

"Who would like to pet him then?" he asks. "Come on, don't be shy! Rhyss here loves meeting new people. Just stroke him like you would a cat or dog; from the head end in the direction of the tail. That's it young lady. Very good! What's he feel like?"

"Silky and smooth," a boy says as he follows the example of the girl to his right. "I thought he'd be slimy!"

The handler chuckles as I look on in horrified fascination. "That's a popular belief, that. Shows how wrong we can be. Anyone want to hold him? How about you, Ms. Grindley? No?"

I turn and exit hastily, finally finding myself able to move once more. The mere thought of having a constrictor (or any other type of serpent, for that matter) about my neck is rather more than I can bear. I have to get away and quickly! I feel something unpleasant rise in my throat and hastily lean against the side of the building, concentrating on filling my lungs with the cold, sweet air of New London.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I jump slightly before I am able to stop myself and turn to meet the concerned gaze of one of my Irregulars.

"You're really pale!" Deirdre gasps, touching my arm. "Are you OK?"

I nod and address her with a quick smile. "It was rather too stuffy in the reptile house; I simply need some air."

She nods and gives me an appraising sweep of her eyes. "Where's Watson?"

I shrug with the hand that is not still supporting me as it rests upon the fiberglass wall at my side. "Still inside. Looking at snakes." I feel a queer, shrinking sensation at the thought of Watson being left alone in there with those horrid things. Perhaps I should not have left him.

She frowns. "Well, that's what you do in a reptile house. Are you sure you're OK?"

I am just about to reply when a hand touches my shoulder.

"Holmes? Are you quite well?"

I resist the temptation to grasp him firmly by the shoulders and assure myself that he is perfectly all right, instead simply addressing him with a brief smile and nod over my shoulder. "I needed some fresh air."

Watson steps from behind me to come to my side with a concerned frown. I know that he is about to tell me that I look ill, for his expression says it all.

"Who're you?" Deirdre asks as he is just about to speak.

"Ah, forgive me," I interject, thankful of the interruption. "Doctor Watson, meet Deirdre. She is one of my Baker Street Irregulars. Deirdre, Doctor Watson."

She shivers and pulls her coat closer to her as she gives me a confused glance. "Pleased to meet you," she says after a long moment, as opposed to asking after our friend the compudroid.

"It is indeed a pleasure," my companion returns as he shakes her by the hand. "But you are cold! Would you like a hot drink? I believe that there is a café here somewhere, for I can smell coffee."

Yes, so can I. Perhaps I shall feel better once I have had a warming drink. My stomach already appears to be settling.

"Thanks, but I should stay with my group," she replies, wrinkling her nose with distaste. "It's stupid! I walk the streets of London in the dark, but I can't be trusted on my own in a zoo in broad daylight."

I chuckle. "Perhaps they fear that one of you young things might release the tiger or kidnap a penguin."

She frowns and folds her arms, about to protest.

"I should think that it is simply a matter of the rules being in place for the safety and peace of mind of everyone," Watson cuts in hastily, resting a soothing hand upon her slender shoulder.

"In any case," I add. "I am sure that there are children in your class that are not as capable as yourself, that would get into trouble of some sort. As allowing exceptions to a rule would then render that rule quite useless thereafter, you are expected to follow the rules accordingly."

"I guess."

I smile at her. "I shall see you later my dear."

She brightens considerably. "You're restarting homework club?"

I feel my smile broaden. "As you wish. We shall provide tea at four; do you like fish and chips?"

She beams at me. "I prefer burger. Most chip shops sell 'em. I like 'em best with cheese."

Burgers again! Ugh! Well, if that is what the children of today like, I shall purchase three burgers and two pieces of fish. "Very well then. I shall keep that in mind."

She turns to walk away.

"Be sure to inform Wiggins and Tennyson," I remind her.

She turns back. "I'll let 'em know. When? Tonight?"

"The arrangement was every week night."

She grins and nods with enthusiasm. "Business as usual then. Got it. Great to see you Mr. Holmes! Nice meeting you Doctor Watson!"

"Holmes... 'Homework Club'?" my friend asks when we are alone.

I grimace. "That is what they refer to it as, not I. It all started when one of my Irregulars complained that his school is boring and the work too difficult. I could hardly encourage them to miss school because they found it dull and as for the homework..."

"I take it back Holmes," he chuckles. "It would seem that you have changed."

"Not in the slightest!" I snap. "I have always enjoyed teaching those that are willing to learn. I teach them science and mathematics, as a rule. Anything else I assist them in researching on the Internet."

He is staring at me with an expression that is usually reserved for examples of my deductive powers. Surely this revelation is not so very remarkable!

I pull my coat closer and hunch my shoulders as an icy breeze finds its way past the heavy wool fabric. "Shall we find that café?"

"Oh, of course Holmes," he responds, blinking as if returning to wakefulness. "I can see that you are cold."

I am freezing! My throat is horribly dry and sore from my gulping in lungfuls of air upon leaving the chamber of horrors at my back. I can also feel my cold nose beginning to run and, in spite of my leather gloves, my fingers are becoming quite numb with the chill.

Watson slips an arm about me and sniffs. "There would appear to be a signpost beside that flowerbed over there. Let's see if we can find that café."

We are soon sitting in a rather plain café that would appear to double as a gift shop. I have selected the quietest corner, away from noisy children, and we are sipping hot chocolate from large cups. The drinks are warming, but not as good as John's. For someone with no taste-buds or sense of smell, the fellow has an exceptional talent, or instinct, where food and drink is concerned.

"You are looking better now," Watson remarks suddenly. "What happened Holmes?"

I shake my head. "It was nothing to worry about," I assure him before taking another sip of my drinking chocolate. I do not wish to discuss this and particularly not here, where we can be overheard.

"Holmes, you looked dreadful!"

I shrug with a hand. "A headache. My head started to pain me and I thought that I should take some air."

He frowns at me for a long moment and then nods. "That would most likely be due to the chilly weather. It would have been much more comfortable for you had you remained in the warm."

I give another shrug. I have no doubt that he is absolutely correct, for my head had indeed began to pain me when I was taking that 'breath of air'. "I am beginning to feel better now, at least."

"Good! Perhaps you needed a hot drink then."

I sniff and dab at my nose with my handkerchief. The steam from my drink and the warmth of the room has only caused my annoying nose to run all the more. "I expect so."

I see my companion give a slight shiver. "It certainly is bitter! I am still trying to become warm again."

I nod gloomily. I have never much liked the cold and I too am still feeling the chill in my ears, nose and shoulders.

"I suppose it is a reminder of the approach of Christmas," Watson remarks. "How did you spend the holiday last year?"

I feel my lips quirk at the corners in a fleeting smile. "On a case, naturally."

"Oh Holmes!" he shakes his head and sniffs quietly. "Did you not have any friends to share the occasion with?"

I shrug and bark a laugh. "Well, I did share the case with John and Lestrade - and a rather irksome blue toy."

"An annoying toy," he repeats slowly, raising an eyebrow.

I laugh again. "I shall have to get John to reveal all. He enjoys telling stories almost as much as you always did and embellishes them about as much."

He smirks into his cup. "I thought that you disliked my 'embellishments' Holmes."

I simply shrug again and take another sip of my drinking chocolate. It is warming me nicely and I cannot help but emit a contented sigh.

He sniffs again and shakes his head. "How will we spend this Christmas?"

Is that not obvious? "In the manner that we shall spend any other day; together. Naturally. You, I and John. And Lestrade, if she has nothing better to do. But why are we discussing this now? It is only October, after all."

"Well... It will be our first Christmas together..."

And he is already looking forward to it. I suppose he shall want to deck the halls and purchase a tree. Ah well, I suppose his company is worth the nuisance.

"Hallowe'en comes first," I say at last with a grimace. "The Irregulars rather enjoy that... occasion..."

"What do you mean?" my companion asks of me. "Did you never attend a Hallowe'en party as a boy?"

I shake my head. "My father was a practical man; he had no time for such superstitious nonsense."

"Then you and your brother were deprived of a great deal of fun."

I wave a dismissive hand. "Be that as it may, I believe that you would strongly disapprove of the 'fun' that is had by the children of today..." I describe 'Trick or Treating' in great detail, including some of the less tasteful tricks.

"That is awful!" my friend gasps. "Whoever came up with the idea of throwing eggs at someone's house? And as for putting explosives through a letterbox..." he shudders.

I shrug with the hand that is not holding my cup. "I believe that modern 'Trick or Treating' derives from that old habit of the Irish. I am sure that you remember it from our day. I seem to recall that it was frowned upon by the majority of society at the time."

He nods and sips at his drink.

"America adopted the idea from them, made some changes, and then (for some reason that quite escapes me) we British decided that it was a good idea after all. But the culture is different in the States and our American cousins have a rather more community-spirited attitude; entire streets participate in the celebrations, I understand. It is a different matter in Britain and some villains simply use the occasion as an excuse to menace, intimidate and even rob the vulnerable. It is that that I am opposed to."

"And the Irregulars see no harm in it, I suppose."

I shrug and rub at my temple. "Why would they? Nobody else does."

"I suppose they would have no reason to see any harm in it in that case," he agrees. "Perhaps we should provide them with something else to do."

"And what would you suggest?" I ask, my interest sufficiently piqued.

A party. That is his bright idea. One in which all victims - guests - are expected to wear ridiculous costumes and play games such as apple bobbing. I dislike parties and he knows it. All the same, I am unable to find it within myself to say anything against the idea, as that would most assuredly wipe that cheerful smile from his face. I am sure that I did not feel so compelled to appease him before. What the deuce has happened to me?

"I shall think about it," I say at last.

He looks disappointed. "You dislike parties. I was forgetting."

I gaze into the depths of my drink as if it might hold the answer to my problem. "We shall see what John and Lestrade say," I decide at last. "I cannot deny that it may prove to be wise to encourage the Irregulars to come in off the streets and a party might be just the bait - I mean incentive - that we need."

He is laughing at my use of the word 'bait'. "Very well Holmes," he says once he has himself under control. "We shall see whether they like my idea or otherwise have a better suggestion. Where to now?"

I finish my drinking chocolate and wipe my mouth. "I suppose the museum might be a good port of call. I believe the food served there is quite agreeable as well, if you are hungry." If he is hungry indeed! He is probably starving, for two pieces of toast do not a hearty breakfast make.

"Can we walk it?" he enquires quietly. "I have had quite enough of flying for the moment and I doubt that I would feel able to eat after another cab journey."

Poor old Watson! I want to help him to adjust, not cause him to become all the more nervous. "Of course we can walk. Come along then."

We pull on our outdoor clothing once more, ensuring that we are as well wrapped up as we can manage. My companion falls into step with me easily and we exit the Zoo.

The walk to the museum is not an overly long one (Watson and I have walked far greater distances) and there is hardly a soul on the pavement, for most people would much rather hurtle from place to place by hovercar. Despite the ease and speed by which we make our way, we are both cold long before we reach our destination.

"Are you feeling all right Holmes?" Watson asks when I sniff and pull my coat closer.

I nod and stifle a minor sneeze. "Choo! Yes, I am p-perfect..." I stop speaking for a moment as another urge to sneeze threatens to overpower me and pull my handkerchief from my pocket. "...perfectly all right. I am cold, thaah... that is... Uhh... Choo! That is all."

"Bless you," he touches my arm as I quietly blow my nose. "If you are as cold as all that, you must also be hungry."

I am. Terribly so! I feel as if my stomach is trying to eat itself and I am becoming tired and weak. Walking seems to be taking rather a lot of effort now.

"How much further?" my companion enquires as he slips his arm through mine. He seems concerned.

I sniff. "Not much further," I assure him. All the same, my pace is slowing despite my best efforts, making the distance seem greater than it should. I had not realised that I was as cold and hungry as this.

"Are you feeling unwell?" is the next question.

I smile and shake my head. "If something was amiss I would not feel hungry. You know that. No, I am quite all right my dear fellow. But what about you?"

He squeezes my arm. "I am all the better for walking, thank you. I only hope that you are not suffering for your kindness."

"We shall be able to warm ourselves soon," I remind him with a smile. "There is nothing wrong that shelter, warmth and a good meal cannot put right."

"I most certainly hope not," he murmurs as he gives my arm another squeeze. "You are much thinner than I am; if I am feeling the chill, I dread to think how you must be faring."

Not well. My hands and feet are aching with cold, my nose would appear to have turned to ice and I am beginning to feel a new discomfort that has nothing at all to do with hunger. I should have thought about the affect that exposure to the cold can have on a fellow. I attempt to ignore the discomfort and concentrate on making my way in my usual fashion.

Watson frowns at me when I stumble slightly and steadies me with the arm that is still linked through mine. He remains silent, but his face says it all.

"I am freezing," I mutter defensively.

"Yes Holmes, I know that you are," he squeezes my arm. "I could lend you my coat..."

Absolutely not. I will not allow my Watson to freeze to death ten minutes away from our destination. "We are close now," I insist. "If I could only walk faster we would be there now."

"I dare not hurry you," he informs me with concern. "Men have died of heart failure due to exposure. I know that you are strong Holmes, but forcing you to increase your speed could still be dangerous."

I could not hurry my steps in any case. I am too weary and the discomfort in my abdomen too insistent. The first thing that I must do when we reach the museum is seek out the cloakroom.

"Are you all right?" my companion asks again.

I frown at him. "You know how I hate to repeat myself and I do believe that you have already asked me that question Watson."

"Exposure is dangerous Holmes," he repeats, as if he believes that I have somehow failed to hear or grasp that the first time. "I want you to tell me if you are becoming fatigued or feeling unwell. Is your head aching? Are you feeling dizzy?"

"No." Well, my head does pain me slightly when I breathe through my nose, but that is quite easily remedied. "Will you please stop vexing yourself needlessly? I am quite all right."

He nods and we both continue on in silence. Eventually, we reach our destination and hurry inside.

"Can we eat before we do anything else?" my friend asks. "I am quite hungry."

I grimace and step from one foot to the other. I dare not stand still for a moment now. "I am rather hungry myself old fellow, but could you please give me a moment?"

"Of course I can! Are you all right?"

No. "Yes. I just have to use the facilities."

He nods and touches my arm. "Of course Holmes. Do you know where they are?"

No I do not. I have not set foot in here before. All the same, the cloakrooms are usually situated in close proximity to the restaurant in public buildings so I shall try there first. It is a safe enough bet.

Watson escorts me to the coffee shop in the centre of the downstairs exhibition area, his hand resting upon my shoulder. He seems terribly concerned and his sympathy is clear.

I am not about to inform him that my discomfort has worsened to become frightfully urgent but I suspect that he already knows in any case. He is a highly perceptive doctor and he knows me very well; I suspect that it is as obvious to him as a lie is to me. All the same, I concentrate on keeping my steps steady and even. Deceiving Watson may be a lost cause, but there is no need to make my predicament known to all and sundry. I console myself with the knowledge that I shall not have to remain thus for much longer while my irksome body informs me that that is just as well.

The facilities are indeed located in the place that I anticipated and I step inside with a deliberately calm and dignified pace. I am not a child and I am able to control myself perfectly well; I do not have to run or make a spectacle of myself in any other manner, despite the horrible throbbing in my lower abdomen. I have waited this long and I can wait a little longer.

When I rejoin my friend I am feeling hungry and exhausted. He helps me to sit down across the table from his chosen seat and frowns at me with renewed concern.

"I am all right," I assure him. "I simply do not respond well to the bitter cold."

He nods and touches my hand. "You are frozen!"

Yes, I know. The wash basins provided in the cloakroom only had one water temperature and that, of course, was icy cold. Not that my hands were very warm before I turned the faucet anyway.

"You look weary as well," he notes. "I think that we should go home once we have seen the exhibitions."

I sniff and quietly blow my nose. "I am all right."

"Let me be the judge of that Holmes. I am, after all, a doctor," he retorts.

I shrug and return my handkerchief to my pocket before removing my coat. "As you wish."

He pats my hand before straightening up. "Thank you. I think that we should take a cab home. I shall be all right."

If he is sure. I shrug again and turn my attention to the menu before me. I am famished!

"I do not think much of this menu," my companion whispers. "Whoever told you that the food here was good?"

I grimace. "Lestrade."

"I suspect that she might have been joking."

I nod. Pizza, burgers, fish fingers... all served with chips! I am willing to bet that the pizza is not a traditional Italian sort either, but rather more the type that comes frozen. I still dislike processed foods that have been filled with additives, but I suppose that I am hungry enough to eat anything.

"What are you having?" Watson asks.

I turn my attention to the 'Hot Snax' menu. Ah! Now here is something that I can eat! "A jacket (baked, they mean) potato with cheese and ham, I think. What about you?"

"Baked potato sounds much more appetising than fish fingers. I did not even know that fish had fingers! They must be very small..."

I laugh and shake my head. "Oh Watson! Fish fingers are pieces of horribly processed fish - usually cod or pollock and sometimes a mixture - that have been forced into long, thin pieces about the length and thickness of toast soldiers and wrapped in breadcrumb."

"Oh."

"If I were you, I would opt for a potato. There is little that can be done to those." Apart from pesticides of course, but I do not want to think about that; we must eat something!

He nods his agreement. "There is nothing lighter than that on the menu."

I touch his hand. "We shall remain here long enough to allow you to digest old fellow," I assure him. "And I shall make it perfectly clear to the cab driver that it would be in his best interest to provide us with a gentle ride. You shall be all right."

"Thank you Holmes," he smiles at me gratefully. "In that case, I think I shall heed your advice. A baked potato with cheese and ham sounds like just the thing."

I agree and stand with care.

"What are you doing?" my companion asks of me with concern. "Sit down Holmes."

I shake my head. "You will notice that this café does not employ waiters; I have to give our order at the counter. What do you want to drink? Tea or coffee?"

"I shall order our food," he insists. "Please Holmes, you look frightfully unwell. I know that you shall indeed be quite all right once you have eaten and become warm again, but you should still rest until you are quite recovered."

He is right of course. Exposure is indeed dangerous and I am quite weary. All the same, Watson has no money and I shall be required to pay. "I am quite all right," I assure him. "Wait here and keep our place. I shall be back in a moment."

If we both go to the counter we are bound to lose our table and I have no intention of seeking out another. I make my order, adding a pot of tea for two, and am presented with a laden tray once I have made my payment. How am I going to manage? I am bone weary.

"Allow me," the lad that is serving me offers kindly. I must look dreadful! Modern cafés do not employ staff to fetch and carry for their customers.

I shake my head. "Move the tray to one side and my friend will collect it."

"If you're sure sir."

I am and I say so. I then slowly return to our table and sink wearily into my chair. "Could you collect our food Watson?" I request.

He stands with a small smile. "Of course I can. Wait here."

Where would I go? I wait until he has his back to me and then stifle a yawn. Perhaps my recent black mood has left me in a far worse condition than I had realised, for I am sure that I have not felt like this before; not just because I have been out in the cold, at least. On the other hand, I have grown rather accustomed to my Inverness, which is much warmer than the coat that I have with me in its stead.

The sound of a plastic spoon tapping the rim of a teacup rouses my attention. "Holmes? Can you hear me?" my companion asks with concern.

"Yes Watson," I respond as I hastily attempt to recall to mind whatever it was that he was saying to me. Something about the staff, it would seem. He most likely objects to having to fetch over the tray when there are four people working behind the food counter and a further two cleaning.

He slides a cup and saucer toward me and I eagerly wrap my fingers around it. Oh! That feels better.

My friend speaks not a word but instead keeps a very close eye on me. His manner is enough to inform me that he is still terribly concerned. However, he does seem to calm himself once I have cleared my plate and had two cups of tea. It would seem that I am left looking as improved as I now feel.

"Are you feeling better?"

I nod and carefully conceal another yawn. "Yes thank you. It would seem that I was hungrier than I realised."

"That comes as no surprise Holmes," he informs me severely.

No, I suppose that it would not. I shrug indifferently. "Is there anything else that you would like?"

He shakes his head. "I think I should have a care if we are to take a cab home. You are welcome to have something else if you are still hungry."

I am not. We collect up our outdoor clothing and begin our tour of the museum in companionable silence.

As time goes on, I find myself being asked many things. Some of it I am able to answer, but other questions are going to have to be answered with the help of Lestrade and the Internet.

We eventually come to a section with entertainment as its subject. There is a gramophone, a selection of records, a number of wirelesses, a television set and numerous other items.

"Holmes!" Watson gasps suddenly, causing me to turn and hasten to his side.

I have no idea what I was expecting him to point out to me, but I do know that I was most certainly unprepared for the sight that meets my gaze as I stand beside my companion. Behind the glass before us is an old, scratched and stained upright piano, a piccolo and a violin. Not just any violin, however.

"This Stradivarius was kindly donated to the museum by the owner of the Sherlock Holmes museum upon its closure; the result of a lack of funding," my companion reads aloud. "I did wonder what had become of your violin."

I nod and slam my fist against the glass. To have found my musical instrument only to discover that it is forever lost to me is almost more than I can bear. I want it back!

"Oi! What d'you think you're doing, eh?"

We turn slowly to meet the gaze of a frowning security guard.

"I can assure you that I would not be foolish enough to be caught if I were to feel inclined to rob the museum," I inform him with a smirk.

Watson gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. "Holmes!" he hisses at me.

"Holmes?" the guard takes a step closer and peers at me. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Ah. I feel my smirk twitch with amusement before I can quite stop it and I quickly bow my head in a polite manner to conceal it. "The very same."

He turns to my friend. "And... Doctor Watson?"

My companion smiles broadly and shakes the guard by the hand. "I am indeed."

"Pleased to meet you both. But what brings you here? Nothing's been stolen. I wouldn't have it!"

If I had a penny for every occasion on which I heard a statement of that nature, I would have a horde of very old copper coinage. 'Not on my watch' is a sentiment that means little to the criminal persuasion, I have found.

"Holmes and I are sightseeing," Watson replies cheerfully before I can so much as open my mouth. "I seem to have much to learn."

"A guided tour is it?" he asks with a bright smile. "Well, that explains why you guys are here, but it don't explain why I caught you hitting the glass. Do you think someone wants to rob the place?"

I suddenly feel rather hot about the ears and hope that I am not blushing. "No. I am afraid that I simply allowed my emotions to get the better of me."

My companion gestures in the direction of my Stradivarius. "You have his violin."

"Oh. But that was donated to the museum almost three years ago, when the... I mean..."

"When 211B Baker Street ceased to open its doors as the Sherlock Holmes museum," I nod wearily and wave a dismissive hand. "I know. I know all about the museum and its closure."

Watson pats my back. "We shall find you another violin."

"They are antiques," I tell him miserably. "A good violin, still in top condition, is as difficult to come by as a perfect gem," I snort and shake my head, "and probably just as expensive." I wish I had not seen it. I would rather not know where my violin had disappeared to in my absence.

"You know, skilled violinists are just as rare..." the guard begins with a small smile.

No! Absolutely not! I know exactly what he is about to suggest, and I am sure that he believes himself to be being kind, but I have only ever played to help myself to think or to soothe my dear friend of old. I could not possibly perform here for an audience.

I realise that the guard has continued to explain his idea and that Watson in turn is endeavouring to explain to him what my violin is for. He knows me so well, even after all this time!

The guard gives my companion an address to write to, in order to appeal for the safe return of my instrument, but he does not hold out much hope. Neither do I; museums like to be able to boast about holding a treasure or two and I am still famous enough for my name to add extra value to my possessions.

Watson remains optimistic. I would be much more aggravated by this if I did not suspect the show of optimism to be meant to reassure me. My companion is, after all, terribly kind-hearted.


	9. The End of a Long Day

After what seems an age, we head for Lestrade's apartment by cab. This driver clearly wants his tip, for he provides us with the smoothest ride that I have ever experienced in a cab of any kind.

We have not gone far when I see my companion attempt to conceal a yawn.

"It has been a long day," I remark quietly.

He nods and sniffs. "But an enjoyable one. Thank you Holmes; I cannot remember the last time that we spent a day together in such a manner."

I am glad that he has enjoyed himself and tell him as much. "But are you going to be too weary to meet my Irregulars?"

"No! Of course not. I should like to meet them Holmes."

"There is always Monday evening..." I begin carefully.

He addresses me with a warning glare. "Absolutely not! I am perfectly all right."

"My apologies Watson," I give him a wry smile. "I was hardly about to pack you straight off to bed when we got home; I simply do not wish for you to wear yourself down."

He returns my smile with gratitude. "I shall be all right. I am a war victim no longer, remember; you have no reason to be so very careful with me."

When I met Watson at St. Barts Hospital, oh so very long ago, he was terribly unwell. John has helpfully informed me of the nature of the horrid disease that my unfortunate companion contracted while recovering from his injuries and I shudder to think of it even now.

I am quite certain that a weaker man would not have reached England alive after being invalided home from Afghanistan in his condition and that is without taking his injuries into account. Of course, my friend had not told me what was wrong with him, aside from the obvious, and had simply referred to himself as being 'lazy' to avoid having to mention his illness. We never talked of it and as a result, I had not realised that the fellow had known that I had been aware of the fact that he had been so unwell or that I had been concerned. What else does he know about me that I believe to have concealed?

He smiles at me. "I have not forgotten the way in which you would ensure that I did not become too weary," he says quietly.

"You had a recurring fever," I respond with a frown as I attempt to conceal the extent of my knowledge from him. "Of course I had to be careful with you! Especially so, as you did not always feel compelled to take more care of yourself."

He shrugs and sniffs quietly.

"Yes, I know that I am no better than you are," I grumble, causing him to smirk.

"If you know that, why do you still feel compelled to go on?" my irksome companion asks of me.

I am not going to answer that. Ha!

He sniffs again and looks out of the window beside him. "How far up would you judge us to be?" he asks suddenly, after a long moment of silence.

I am not sure that I should answer that either. He sounds nervous again, though he seemed to be fine when we were talking. Am I going to have to distract him on every single journey? I am not sure that I can keep this up; I am bound to run out of subjects to cover soon.

"Holmes...?"

I slip my arm around him. "We appear to be higher up than we are," I lie through my teeth. I do not like to lie to him in the slightest, but I do not want him to become scared. "Come now Watson, forget about the view. I would like to discuss your party idea." As a matter of fact, I would be prepared to discuss anything at all if it will only distract him.

By the time that we reach our destination, my friend has successfully convinced me of two things; the first is that I dislike Hallowe'en parties very much and the second is that my Irregulars will have a wonderful time and that we should give the party whether I particularly want to or not.

Watson, of course, is terribly happy when I give his idea my blessing. "We shall have fun," he assures me with a bright smile.

I have little doubt that he and the Irregulars will. Deirdre enjoys dressing up and every one of my Irregulars like games. Oh well, I suppose that I can call the fancy dress an opportunity to practice my theatrics and the games do require a certain level of skill. It should not be a complete waste of time.

John greets our arrival cheerfully when we reach Lestrade's home. He takes our outdoor clothing and escorts us into the apartment.

"How is the patient?" Watson enquires softly.

"Almost as stubborn as Holmes," he returns with a huff. "She is not at all well, but she has been insisting that she will be able to work tomorrow."

I smirk at him and flex my fingers. "Allow me to deal with Miss Lestrade." I know exactly how I shall put an end to such nonsense!

"Do not annoy her Holmes," Watson advises me.

"Pooh!" I snort. "How else am I to make her see reason? Watch and learn gentlemen."

Lestrade is curled up in her bed when I go through to her. John is quite right; she looks terrible. I sit beside her on the bed, taking care to avoid sitting on my ill friend of course, and gently brush her hair away from her eyes.

"Leave me 'lone John," she groans so quietly that I can barely understand her. "Lemme sleep."

"Hum, you do look rather tired," I observe as quietly as I can manage.

Her eyes flicker open to stare up at me. They are glassy and just a little too bright. "You're not s'posed t' be here."

I shake my head and continue to toy with her hair somewhat absent-mindedly. "You are my friend. Of course I should be here."

She attempts to stifle a yawn. "Don't want you and Watson getting sick."

"It is quite impossible to avoid illness. Come now, desist. It is only a cold, I believe."

She shrugs and reaches halfheartedly for a box of tissue handkerchiefs with a sniff. "Well, I warned you."

I feel myself give her another smirk as I hand her the box. "Indeed you have. Now, what is all this I hear about you returning to work tomorrow?"

"I'm not sick enough t' jus' stay at home," she tells me, her voice sounding increasingly tired and congested. "'S only a zedding cold."

I raise my eyebrows. "It has you too weary to move yourself enough to get a paper handkerchief from the box at your bedside!"

She shrugs and pulls one of the handkerchiefs from the box. "I'm lazy when I'm sick."

"Hum! 'Lazy' my foot!" I argue, causing her to screw her eyes shut. "Your body requires rest; that is not being lazy. How do you expect to make a swift recovery if you will not even permit yourself to meet your basic requirements?"

She moans. "Don' shout Holmes! It hurts."

"Then please stop being so ridiculous!"

She moans again and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Please... Sherlock..."

I suppose I must relent. I hardly want to cause her further pain. "What is it that you have to do at the Yard?" I ask her as she quietly blows her nose.

"Usual stuff. You know; reports and stuff."

"Nothing that cannot wait, surely?"

She frowns at me. "Y' know something? You're nearly as annoying as this cold is."

Good! That is the general idea. "Oh, I can be much worse than this if I put my mind to it," I assure her with a smile. "In fact, I can be quite insufferable. Would you like me to show you?"

"No thanks. I think I wanna sleep."

I chuckle. "Very wise."

"Why'd you even want to annoy me?" she asks in that far from characteristic whining tone that she used earlier today.

"I was going to make a bargain with you," I explain with a shrug. "If you listen to John and Watson, I shall stop."

She moans. "'S not fair!"

I am tired of being fair! I shrug with my hands before folding my arms and addressing her with the steely glare that is usually reserved for lawbreakers. I have had enough and I want her to know it without the shadow of a doubt. "Perhaps not, but you are not being fair to John either. You are quite wearing the poor chap out my dear."

"Didn't mean to," she mumbles sleepily.

I smile and run my fingers through her hair. "Of course not. Go on, get some sleep; you are in safe hands."

She yawns and closes her eyes. "Thanks Sherlock."

When Watson pokes his head around the door, Lestrade is sleeping. He smiles at me, causing me to realise that I am still playing with the Yarder's hair, and I hastily still my hand's movements.

"How is she?" my companion asks in a hushed tone.

I shake my head. "She is exhausting herself," I reply just as quietly. "I very much doubt that she could get out of bed if she had to, never mind if she wanted to. She could not even rouse herself enough to reach for the box of tissue-paper handkerchiefs when they were on her night-stand; I had to put them on the bed beside her."

He frowns at her and shakes his head in turn. "Then she had best not go to work tomorrow."

"Hum, indeed not. I would not want her to become any worse."

"This is the work of that dammed chief inspector," he remarks. "I have a good idea to give the fellow a piece of my mind."

I smirk at him. "Good old Watson! No no, he does not know what to do with the brain he already has; you would not want to waste yours on him."

He raises his eyebrows at me and then chuckles. "Well, if you say so Holmes. But all the same, I feel that something should be done."

I agree. I am still rather angry about the way that both John and Lestrade have been treated of late and I say as much. "But not right now; I feel that we should approach the matter delicately. Shouting at Grayson clearly does not work."

"No. He simply shouts back and throws insults about. I wanted to punch the devil!"

So did I, but I am not about to encourage that attitude. "Violence never solves anything; even if it does relieve one's frustration and anger at the time. No Watson, we shall have to find a better way of getting through to him."

I am right and he has to admit as much. "Come on," he says. "We should allow our ill friend some peace. We shall be able to hear her from the sitting room if she needs us."

"You are right of course," I acknowledge as I stand slowly, doing my utmost to avoid disturbing the sleeping inspector.

He smiles at me and slips an arm about my shoulders. "Of course I am. Come along old chap; John is making us a nice pot of tea."

Surely he is not still worried about me? I cast him a quick glance. No, he is simply being his usual, friendly self.

"You do realise that the Irregulars will be at Baker Street in just over an hour and a half, do you Holmes?" my companion enquires when we are both seated in Lestrade's little sitting area.

I nod. "We have plenty of time," I assure him. "I am only going to provide them with a takeaway dinner, after all."

"That is just as well," he remarks with a small smile. "We hardly want to give them food poisoning, do we?"

"Phshaw!" I snort in response. "I am sure that I never gave you food poisoning."

He smirks at me. "There is a very good reason for that."

I frown at him and gesture for him to explain himself.

"I never ate anything that looked suspect."

What cheek! I always took very good care of my Boswell! "Pah!"

He pats my knee. "It is quite all right Holmes; nobody can be expected to be good at everything, after all."

I cannot help but snort again.

John brings us our tea and I settle back in my seat with a sigh. Now that we have stopped, I can feel sleep tugging at my fatigued brain.

"You look sleepy Holmes," our robotic friend remarks with surprise. "Has your day been an eventful one?"

Watson nods and attempts to conceal a yawn. "Very. And it is not over yet." He goes on to explain that we are expecting the Irregulars at Baker Street.

"It is kind of you both to help them with their homework," John says with a smile. "Of course, it is fun; even if it can be tiring."

I explain that John assists them with technology as a rule, though he also helps me to research subjects that I am less confident in teaching. Recent history, the Solar System (and outer space in general) and English Literature are just a few subjects that I do not hold much interest in and I tend to research them, remark that the data that I gather is interesting and then quickly forget it again. If the knowledge does not aid me in my profession it is of no lasting value, interesting or not.

I am suddenly jerked awake to find Watson shaking me. "It is time to go home," he whispers apologetically.

I stretch my back and leap from my chair, flexing my arms and shoulders as I stand. "Why did you not say as much? I was only resting my eyes!"

"I do not like to disturb you," he responds, while his expression informs me that he knows only too well that I was slumbering, regardless of what I might say to the contrary.

I conceal a yawn, thank John for the tea, and tell him to inform us immediately should he need any assistance; reminding him that Watson is a very good doctor, despite his knowledge and methods being somewhat out of date.

He nods and smiles at me. "I shall keep that in mind. Would you like a lift home?"

I insist that we shall walk. I need some fresh air to return me to wakefulness, not that I care to admit it, and I have my Inverness back now. "In any case," I add as I hand Watson my discarded overcoat, "Miss Lestrade needs you here; she is tired and ill. Baker Street is not so very far away."

"Well, do have a care then; it is already becoming dark out and the temperature must surely have dropped."

I give a slight, involuntary shiver as I ensure that my cape is pulled up close. "Watson and I are perfectly capable of taking care of both ourselves and one another," I assure him. "Good evening John. Give Lestrade our best wishes."

"And our apologies for not saying goodbye in person," Watson adds as he wraps his muffler about his throat. "But she does need plenty of sleep."

"I shall. A safe journey home, gentlemen."

We thank our friend and make our way out into the darkened street, where a freezing fog is rolling in off the Thames.

I tell my companion to drape my coat about his shoulders if he is cold, for my cape is considerably warmer, and then I link my arm with his. I am not about to risk losing him in these conditions.

On the way, I stop at a chip shop and order our dinner to be delivered; two pieces of battered cod and three burgers, all with chips. There is cheese at home and I know not how Tennyson and Wiggins like their burgers. I wonder whether there is any bacon left in the kitchen.

"Any drinks with that?" I am asked by the assistant. "You can have a large bottle of something for free, or the cans are on bog-off."

I raise my eyebrows at the unnecessary language. Have I misheard? "I beg your pardon?"

"Bog-off," he repeats with a shrug.

I hastily restrain my companion and frown at the impertinent man behind the counter. "If you would prefer that we take our custom elsewhere, there are better ways in which to say as much. Come Watson."

We are just about to head for the door when we are hastily called back. "No! No. I didn't mean I wanted you to leave!" he informs us with a nervous chuckle. "Bog-off - you know! Buy One Get One Free; it's a special offer. You get two but you only pay for one, get it? You can get six cans for the price o' three or you can have one big bottle, which is free with the meal. Well, if you want drinks at all. You might as well though, if they're free, hadn't you? Whatcha want?"

Why do these things have to be complicated? Still, the Irregulars all like cola and Watson and I will probably have tea or coffee.

"A large bottle o' coke. Right. Now we're getting somewhere! Is that regular, diet, cherry, vanilla, caffeine free...?"

He has already lost me! How the devil should I know which sort? I was of the impression that cola was cola! "Regular," I decide. If they are not happy with my choice they can blame John for not telling me what their preferences are. Not that I expect any complaints from them; my Irregulars are nothing short of polite and respectful.

The walk home is uncomfortable and long, but quite uneventful. We hurry inside and Watson makes a pot of tea while I light the fire. The cold has quite invaded the house in our absence.

By the time the Irregulars arrive, the house has been warmed and the computer is humming quietly in readiness.

"Hi, Mister Holmes," Deirdre greets me cheerfully when I admit everyone. "Where's Watson? He usually gets the door."

I am about to reply that he is upstairs when I realise that she is referring to the Compudroid. Of course! We did not explain. I tell my Irregulars that I have some news for them as I escort them upstairs.

"You're looking better than you have in ages," Tennyson remarks in a series of whirs and beeps from his hoverchair.

Wiggins nods in agreement. "You got that right Tennyson! We've all been pretty worried about you, I guess, Mr. Holmes. What was wrong? Are you OK now?"

I raise my hands and address them with a smile as I stop before the door to the sitting room. "So many questions! First of all, thank you all for your concern; I received your card and appreciated it very much."

"But what was wrong?" Deirdre asks. "You looked worse than you did when you had the 'flu!"

This is going to take all night if they continue to interrupt in this manner! "I was not unwell. That is, not exactly. You see, I have been missing my own era and the way of life that I was accustomed to terribly. I did not intend to allow you to see that I was suffering..." I shake my head and again raise a hand as they begin to interrupt again. "But I could not avoid it. Inspector Lestrade was as concerned as you all have been..."

Deirdre gives a snort.

I raise an eyebrow at her but continue regardless. "...And decided that I might benefit from my Watson's return. You met him earlier, Deirdre."

"That was really Doctor Watson?" she asks excitedly. "The real Watson?"

I nod. "Indeed it was."

"What about the other Watson?" Wiggins asks me with concern.

"Did you get rid of him?" Tennyson adds.

As if I would! I am hurt that they would think that I could even consider such a thing. "No, of course not. He did have to change his name, but he is still staying with us."

"So where is he?" Tennyson asks.

Ah. Of course, to my Irregulars, it is my Watson who is the interloper. "He is staying with the inspector tonight," I explain. "She is rather unwell and we did not like the thought of her being alone. He will return to Baker Street once she has recovered enough. Well, shall we? Watson has been looking forward to meeting you all."

It is not difficult for my friend of old, with his friendly manner and kindly attitude, to win the Irregulars over. He is soon assisting Wiggins with his literature homework while I attempt to find out the particulars in regard to early space travel.

By the time dinner arrives, Watson and I are both exhausted. When the Irregulars express their concern, I explain that we both attempted to fit far too much into our day and are tired as a result.

"Did you have fun?" Deirdre asks. "You didn't look very happy when I saw you at the Zoo."

I run a hand over my face as Watson adds that I was looking decidedly ill and groan. "I did not sleep for more than two hours a night for weeks; I am still suffering the consequences of sleep deprivation."

"Is that all that was wrong with you?" Wiggins asks.

"Sleep is very important," Watson explains, with a glance in my direction that informs me that he feels that I need to be aware of that fact as well. "It is while we are sleeping that our brains make sense of the information that was gathered during the day, and the body heals and repairs itself. Exhaustion is very dangerous. At best it can lead to illness and at worst it can cause things such as heart failure."

I did not know all that. Now I see why John and Lestrade were as concerned as they were (and also why I became so absent-minded and forgetful).

"I can assure you that I am much better now," I tell my friends quickly. "More than anything, I missed the company and support of my Boswell. Now that Watson has been restored to me, I..." I pause to yawn into my hand. "Oh, do excuse me. I am very much improved."

Watson pats my shoulder and hands me a plate of fish and chips. I thank him and pick at the food half-heartedly; I no longer feel at all hungry.

"Did you fetch up the cheese from the pantry?" I ask Watson suddenly.

He nods. "Yes, Holmes. It was in the cold cupboard with the light in it, in the kitchen; it would seem that the pantry is obsolete."

"The 'cold cupboard' is called a fridge," Wiggins informs us helpfully with a smile.

"I grated some before the food arrived," my companion continues. "The Irregulars helpfully informed me that the cheese in the burgers taste the best when it melts."

I am not convinced that anything could improve the flavour of the horrid things, but I keep my opinion to myself. I am sure that my Irregulars would just as easily turn up their noses at some of the foods that were readily available in my day; jellied eels, for instance.

"Are you not hungry?" Watson asks me suddenly.

I shrug and skewer some chips on my fork. "Not particularly."

"Doesn't it taste good?" Tennyson enquires.

If I were truthful, I would say that the food does not taste the way that I would expect. The manner in which modern battered fish and chips are cooked has obviously been altered.

I shrug again. "The food does not taste bad; I am simply not overly hungry."

"You have seemed tired all afternoon," Watson notes. "Perhaps you are just too weary to want food. Would you like some more tea?"

I nod and stifle a yawn. "Yes please."

"D'you want us to go home?" Wiggins asks quietly. "You're only just starting to feel better; I guess you need some time to get back on your feet."

I address him with a glare. "I am not ill."

"I did not hear anyone imply that you were Holmes," Watson interjects smoothly. "However, it is quite obvious that you are overly tired and in need of sleep; I would recommend an early night."

I have to bow to his advice. My head is beginning to ache and I am feeling a little odd. I do not feel unwell and yet I also do not feel right; I suppose that I feel as I would had I just concluded a long and exhausting case.

The Irregulars bid me a restful evening and retreat downstairs with Watson, leaving me to drag myself into my room to ready myself for bed.

I yawn loudly and gaze into the fire. I shall get into my night clothes and then take to the settee, I decide, for I do not have a fireplace in my bedroom and it will be freezing on a night like this. The flames in the grate swell and flare before my suddenly misty eyes and then they fade to black before I even realise that I am closing my eyes.


End file.
